


A Step Too Far

by Eireann



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-20 15:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 70,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3655662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eireann/pseuds/Eireann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enterprise is in the process of making a First Contact with an alien species who are exploring an archaeological site.  Their inability to decipher the engravings means that they are eager to employ the talents of Enterprise's linguistics expert Hoshi Sato, but the tomb contains more than the dead...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no profit made.
> 
> Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom I am, as always, extremely indebted.
> 
> This work is copyright. Please do not copy it for use elsewhere without asking!
> 
> Please note: although none of the content is graphic enough to warrant use of the Archive Warnings, there are references to subjects that may be considered adult in nature. If material of this type is likely to offend you, please consider before reading it.

The Yb’oa were quite an advanced civilisation.  They had developed warp drive some time ago, although their technological advances had turned in a different direction.  Finding that the planets belonging to the stars closest to their own binary pair held nothing worth the effort required to get there, they’d turned their attention back to their own system and gone on a rampage, terraforming three of the other four available planets and transforming them into playgrounds.  Each of the worlds was independent, but existed in harmony with the others.  Their history hadn't always been idyllic, but they’d gotten over their differences, and worked out a balanced relationship that had now endured for many years.  They no longer looked outwards to the stars for adventure, but to the Three Worlds, and the efforts of those who had the vision of what could be achieved ensured that there was an abundance of environments from which to choose.

Although they no longer expended their resources on seeking out the inhabitants of other planets, however, they welcomed visitors from any of those who were more adventurously minded.  Thus it was when the Earth ship _Enterprise_ approached and broadcast overtures of friendship, the Yb’oa were more than happy to extend a welcome.  It was even, they felt, a fortunate time for the new arrivals.  Most of the administrative functions were still confined to the smallest of the worlds; the others were rather less populated as yet, and indeed one had many regions that had hardly been explored at all.  Only a couple of cycles ago, an expedition party of Yb’oa had discovered evidence of a civilisation other than their own there, whose population had for some reason died out centuries ago.  This had caused great excitement, and a whole host of archaeologists had begun excavating the ruins found on the desert plateau.  It would certainly be a most hospitable gesture to take their new guests to visit the ruins too.  Who knew?  They might be able to contribute some expertise of their own to the research in progress.  The latest reports had spoken of what seemed to have been a tomb, whose walls were covered in mysterious hieroglyphs.  It was, of course, impossible to decipher these with no knowledge of what the language itself had been, but the Planetary Council perked up its collective ears at the information on one of the officers who would be comprising the visiting Earth ship’s landing party.

Ensign Hoshi Sato.

A  _linguist._


	2. Chapter 2

The tombs at the desert site known as Boa’an’a were incredibly old.

At one time they must have been magnificent, but the winds of centuries had worn down the edges and scoured away the carvings, so that now they were little more than great blocks of weathered tawny stone crouching among the dunes.

Nobody had known they were there until very recently, when an archaeological team had been following an ancient trail out into the desert and come across them on a vast barren plateau.  The tombs were surrounded by what appeared to be the remains of an entire complex devoted to the service of the dead.

The find at Boa’an’a had generated enormous amounts of excitement, and not only in the archaeological world.  For one thing, its state of remarkable preservation – internally, at least – seemed to indicate that the civilization to which it belonged had come to a sudden and unforeseen end.  There was no sign of looting among the houses and temples, and even the tombs themselves seemed to be intact.

The Custodian of the excavation site, Chief Architect Ivashty, was placed in charge of escorting the visitors around the first of the tombs to be excavated.  The artifacts it had contained had already been catalogued and removed to a place of safety where they could be treated and stored ready for display to the public.  After the tomb had been visited, the plan was to escort the landing party from _Enterprise_ to the storage facility, so that the precious objects therein could be duly marveled at. 

Ivashty was clearly delighted to have the opportunity to show off his latest and most important project.  He had gathered all his most informed satellites to accompany him and the visitors, so that any questions these might have could be answered as fully and immediately as possible given the limited scope of what had been gleaned so far.

Certainly, thought Hoshi, the tomb was well worth a visit, even for anyone who had no interest in ancient civilizations or their languages, just to see the artwork alone.  It seemed to be a representation of the great house in which the person who had been buried there had lived. 

The Yb’oa had evolved as humanoid, like many other species; it would appear that this particular structure had evolutionary advantages in many circumstances.  According to the information they’d supplied to their visitors, most of the differences were internal.  Externally they were very like humans, apart from being somewhat on the small side as regards height.  Their human visitors had to duck when passing through doorways, and in this tomb – quite lofty by Yb’oan standards – Captain Archer had to be constantly alert not to brush the top of his head against the ceiling.

Whoever the owner of the tomb had been, it was clear that he had enjoyed a most luxurious, not to say opulent, lifestyle.  He was also plentifully supplied with female company if the panels were to be believed – all of the women being young and attractive, and some of them wearing exceedingly little by way of clothing.  It was perhaps inevitable that one of the panels bore material that was presumably intended for adult viewing only, so that Trip pretended to cover Travis’s eyes.

_‘Wishful thinking, I bet,’_ thought Hoshi, her gaze drawn inevitably to the tomb owner’s proudest statistic.  She wished Liz was with her so the two of them could have shared a look of merriment over it, but unfortunately she was walking beside Lieutenant Reed at the time, and if there was any man on the ship less suited to sharing a vulgar joke over a naughty tomb painting, she personally hadn't met him. 

She was therefore obliged to keep her amusement to herself.

As the team entered the last and largest chamber of all, where the coffin itself had been placed, it was all that any of them could do not to gasp.  For all the beauty of those that had gone before, this one was truly stunning. The centuries had done little to dim the beauty of the painting. Although stylized like the others, here much more effort had been put into the fine detail.  The depictions were so lifelike the people in them almost seemed about to move and breathe.

"We believe that this room represented their ‘eternal life’, explained Ivashty.    "It appears that they depicted their lives so that the righteous soul would receive power from the Gods to recreate it. Thus they would enjoy their position of prestige throughout eternity."

The coffin itself was in a sarcophagus of what looked like marble, placed precisely in the center of the room.  It had not been opened.  Nor would it be.  For all of their intense eagerness to learn all they could about this ancient civilization, the Yb’oa regarded their dead with deep reverence; no amount of information that could be gleaned from what they found would be felt sufficient justification for disturbing the rest of the dead king.  He had been placed there to rest for eternity, and there he should stay, undisturbed.

It certainly seemed that whoever he had been in life, he had been strenuously determined to enjoy his afterlife. Panel after panel displayed his wealth as well as the position of authority he obviously enjoyed.

"But there is only so much we can surmise from studying the pictures," the Custodian lamented.  "If we could only make a breakthrough with understanding the language!"

Hoshi felt the eyes turn towards her, and blushed.  Ever since they’d come into the tomb her gaze had been drawn towards the countless lines of meticulously chiseled text. As a linguist, the challenge was irresistible to her, even if meeting it wouldn't confer almost boundless kudos on Starfleet in general and on Enterprise in particular.

Nevertheless, the lack of any instances of the spoken language or any scrap of reference to any other known language was a severe drawback. By dint of much careful study she could probably come up with some kind of account of some of the passages, but she knew that wasn't what Ivashty was hoping for. Linguistically speaking, he wanted a miracle.

"I’m sure Ensign Sato will give the matter all of her expertise," said the captain diplomatically.

The Custodian peered at her in pathetic hope.  "The gratitude of our intellectual community would be boundless, _boundless_ , Ensign," he quavered.

"I’ll do my very best, sir," she replied, feeling the terrible burden of his expectation fall on to her shoulders like a shawl of solid lead.  At a guess, the news of her prowess had been broadcast far and wide, engendering all kinds of utterly unrealistic expectation. The scale of disappointment if she now failed to deliver would be correspondingly enormous, casting a shadow over this First Contact that would be out of all proportion to the chances of her ever succeeding.

The landing party split up to explore whichever part of the room captured their fancy. Trip had drifted off to examine a panel whose thousands of intricately linked geometric shapes suggested an electronic schematics diagram to him, and called Travis over to point out an arrangement of glyphs that could be thought – with some imagination – to vaguely suggest a set of co-ordinates.

Hoshi, meanwhile, made her way to one of the panels that was particularly closely filled with text.  It didn't escape her notice that many pairs of eyes followed her.  Doubtless many of the archaeologists were more than half expecting her to begin declaiming the translation just from looking at it for five minutes.

"Don’t let it worry you more than you can help." The soft voice at her shoulder made her jump, though it shouldn't have done; by now she was growing used to the fact that when he chose to, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed could move as silently as a cat.

"Easier said than done," she replied a little bitterly.  "If it didn't sound completely self-obsessed, I’d even wonder if we’d have been invited here in the first place if they didn't think I’m a miracle worker."

Malcolm nodded. He wasn't the type of guy who’d deny the undeniable, even in the attempt at consolation.

"You can only do your best, Ensign," he said gently.  "The captain understands that, even if these reverend people are expecting far too much of you."

He moved away, leaving her in peace to begin studying the close-packed rows of hieroglyphs.  Still, her attention wasn't entirely fixed on the text as she did so; some of it, whether she would or no, remained irritatingly aware that she’d just glimpsed another facet of the complex man in charge of Enterprise’s tactical station.  From all she’d seen of him so far during the voyage, Reed was the very last person she’d have expected to have any tolerance for failure to carry out a duty that should – technically – have fallen well within her remit.  

Her first step was to familiarize herself with the glyphs she’d be studying.  Activating a special program on her PADD, she began drawing it methodically up and down the lines of text. The fact that they were enclosed in vertical strips suggested that this was how they were meant to be read, though there was no clue as to whether the text started at the top or the bottom, or in which corner of either.  She had to work at discovering recurring patterns; possibly, though not inevitably, the one that occurred most frequently was likely to be the name of the man for whom the tomb had been constructed. It would then be possible to discover at least some guidelines as to how the language was put together.   

Yb’oa had a single language, but this had a formal version, rarely used except for certain phrases in law documents and on highly significant occasions.  Out of interest, once she had the basic modern one mastered she’d started to familiarize herself with its parent, enjoying the challenge of finding its quirks and perceiving how the less formal version must have evolved from it.  According to the friendly and knowledgeable academic with whom she’d talked at the welcoming reception, the original version was thought to be thousands of years old.  In the way of languages, it had doubtless done a little evolving of its own down the centuries, but it was felt to be so important to Yb’oan society and culture to preserve it accurately that the structure itself had probably remained more or less intact.

However, understanding the languages didn't necessarily help much with deciphering written text.  Modern Yb’oan was written in a standard alphabet that bore no apparent relation to these hieroglyphs, and the friendly academic had admitted that the ancient form was difficult to represent accurately in modern text, since it contained sounds that were no longer utilized; much of it was preserved on audio recordings rather than written down.  But nobody knew if this was the same language anyway, and given that they were on different worlds it well might not be.  Working on the chance that it was the same, or at least might be distantly related to it, she had to work out what images corresponded to which words or word groups or letters, and she didn't even have an idea which way she was supposed to be reading the glyphs to start with. 

She was still absorbed in this task when the captain approached her – for a moment at least, to her relief, minus his comet-tail of expectant archaeologists.

"Don’t feel under any undue pressure with this, Hoshi," he told her kindly, echoing Malcolm’s words of a short while ago.  "These people have been studying these panels for years and not gotten anywhere.  Believe it or not, they do understand that not having any clue to the original language makes written text practically impossible to decipher."

"Easy enough to say that, sir," she replied in a low voice.  "I've seen the way they’re watching me. They really do think I can work miracles, no matter what they say to you.  If I can’t pull this off, they’re going to be devastated. "

"Then maybe they’re going to have to learn not to set their sights too high another time.  But if you can’t do this, Hoshi, no-one can."  He gave her the ghost of a reassuring wink before he was reclaimed by their hosts, who were now anxious to show him a panel that was thought to be of particular significance in indicating the origins of the tomb builders ‘if only it could be fully and properly understood.’

It seemed that Travis had parted company with Trip’s exposition of the supposed coordinates.  A few minutes later he drifted over to join her too.

"Sooner you than me, trying to make sense of all these," he commiserated, casting an awed glance over the panel.  "Hell, imagine making a typo on the last word!" 

"I don’t suppose they employed people who were likely to make ‘typos’," she said, laughing in spite of herself; he always had been able to make her smile. "I’d guess the people who did work in these places were highly skilled professionals. And besides, I’d hate to think what the punishment would be for wrecking your boss’s chances in the afterlife with a typo, so I’d guess they’d double and triple check every word before they started on it."

Travis nodded. "If you get a minute, check out the panel in the far corner that Trip and Malcolm are looking at. It’s this scene from what looks like sort of royal presentation, and the weird thing is, some of the people look a bit like us.  Well, Commander Tucker and I think so," he added with a grin, glancing back in that direction; certainly one member of the landing party failed to perceive the resemblance, or possibly was determined not to admit it if he did.

This was too intriguing to defer.  Abandoning the stubbornly recalcitrant panel for a moment, Hoshi made her way over to the corner Travis had indicated.

Trip was evidently trying to get Malcolm to admit the resemblance.  To judge by the tactical officer’s stubborn glare, it wasn’t going to happen. Hardly surprising, really, since the figure at whom Trip was pointing was depicted with a shock of hair that more resembled the spikes of a hedgehog, and the comparison with the always immaculately turned-out tactical officer was somewhat comical. Nevertheless, if one discounted the hair and what looked like some kind of ceremonial costume, the resemblance was there.  If you were really determined to find it.

Trip apparently was. He pointed enthusiastically at another figure. 

"Don’t tell me this doesn't look like T’Pol.  Hell, she’s even keepin’ an eye on the cap’n!"

The ship’s XO had arrived by then, probably drawn by her junior officers’ interest.  She studied the panel with her usual aloof calm.  If she’d been Human, the slight quirk of her lips would have unmistakably indicated satisfaction before she wandered away to inspect the carved statues in the next chamber; as it was, the expression came and went so rapidly that they’d probably imagined it.

The panel did, indeed, portray a presentation being made to a king or some other important figure.  It was rather difficult to avoid making the VIP look like Captain Archer, except that his expression suggested that a court martial was absolutely the least anybody could expect if he wasn't happy. Behind him stood one of his wives, at a guess – this was the person whose resemblance to T’Pol Trip had pointed out. Behind her again was a fearsomely armed bodyguard, who wore an expression that Travis’s face probably wasn't capable of producing.  It was hard to say at whom this fearful scowl was directed – the hovering Queen, or the three people in front of the throne.

Hoshi’s gaze was drawn to them as though by magnetic force. A slender female figure was depicted there, and it seemed that she was the center of some kind of dispute between the male figures on either side of her. One was dark-haired and dressed in black – the guy whom Trip claimed to resemble Malcolm – and the other fair and dressed in white.  Each of them had a hand on her shoulder, and they were staring at each other across her head.  She seemed indifferent to them both, intent only on the object in her hands.

"We believe this female represents ‘Wisdom’," Ivashty said from behind her shoulder. "If you observe, the two men are opposites, probably representing Darkness and Light, Good and Evil.  We postulate that Darkness has been portrayed a little smaller in order to magically diminish his power in the afterlife.  Perhaps she is some kind of Wise Woman, giving the king advice on how to judge between the two."

As theories went, it was certainly plausible enough.  It didn't furnish any explanation of the object at which the Hoshi-figure was so fixedly gazing, but it certainly did explain the open hostility in the expressions of the two men flanking her.

"It gives me the creeps," she said at last, with a shiver.

"Hey, don’t take it seriously!" Trip clapped her lightly on the shoulder, giving her a small reassuring squeeze as he did so.  "Whoever these guys are, this tomb’s thousands of years old. We won’t be bumpin’ into any of ‘em!"

He meant well, she knew he did, and she achieved a smile that had in it much of her usual gaiety. Nevertheless, somehow an odd cold layer of fear rested at the base of her stomach as she turned away, and she knew that once again Lieutenant Reed was looking at her thoughtfully.

He didn't follow her or speak, but shortly after she halted opposite yet another panel – this one blessedly free of figures, though the one next door to it showed a bevy of lovely women seemingly having a picnic in a garden; some of the king’s other wives, perhaps? – Travis appeared at her shoulder again. His expression was artificially bright, and she didn't miss the lightning-swift glance that assessed her; no doubt he’d been ordered to keep an eye on her, and she could guess by whom.  Irritation sparked: damn Lieutenant Reed, mollycoddling her just because of a moment’s absurd over-imagination!

"I’m fine, Travis," she said quietly but with some emphasis, unconsciously mimicking the man whose unwanted solicitude had so irked her.  "I’d just like to get on with trying to get some kind of picture of the way this language is put together. Really, I just... Okay.  Just for a minute, it freaked me out a little.  But I’m over it now."

His smile was gentle and relieved, but he didn't go away. Nevertheless his continued presence beside her was obscurely comforting as she began re-examining the text, seeing the first indications of potential structures spring out at her.

"I wonder if these pieces of metal have anything to do with the writing or they’re just for decoration?" he asked presently, speaking in a low voice and aside to Trip, who had drifted over to join them.  For here and there in the plaster of this wall, small, smooth round domes of some hard shining material seemed to have been embedded.  It was obviously not within the visitors’ remit to take scans – doubtless their hosts had more than enough technology to do that if they required it done – but it simply seemed odd that they were there.  In a place where everything else had obviously decorative or religious significance, these seemed to have no purpose.  There were no pictures, and the text simply accommodated their existence.

“Maybe that’s something we’ll find out if – by some miracle – I manage to get anything out of this writing.”  Hoshi sighed at the enormity of the demand.  “I suppose there’s a chance it could be related to something else entirely.  Primitive civilizations usually relate the afterlife with the sky.  Maybe if we map out the positions of these things, and compare them to stellar maps adjusted for the time frame, we may find they represent some significant constellation.  Metal may have been the nearest the tomb-builders could come to representing the appearance of a star.”

“I’m sure the science team will get on to that if you point up the possibility.”  The helmsman stepped backwards a little as though trying to find some resemblance to the planets and the local stars as they would appear from this planet’s surface; obviously he’d looked at the local star charts as they arrived, and was trying to fit them into position.

“Maybe T’Pol might be able to see something in it,” suggested Trip.  He turned around to go and fetch the head of the Science Department, plainly eager to have anything to contribute to the search for clues.

Personally, Hoshi thought it was a long shot.  The pieces of metal didn't look as though they were meant to be decorative, and the skill that had been put into the rest of the decoration made it hard to imagine that the tomb-builders could not have achieved that if they’d wanted to. 

No; they’d been put there for some other reason.  Without doubt, if she’d been able to decipher the text – she grimaced; everything, it seemed, came back to that – the explanation would be there in plain view. 

Thoughtfully she touched the nearest ever so lightly; normally she would not have touched any historical artifact without wearing gloves, knowing that even the acid of skin can be corrosive over time, but the metal looked practically _new_.  The surface was cool, significantly lower than that of their surroundings.  Maybe the atmosphere was generating some kind of minute electric charge, because it seemed to her that her skin prickled ever so slightly as her fingers came into contact with it. 

“Sorry – what?” She glanced over her shoulder.

Travis looked puzzled.  “I didn't say anything.”

Now it was Hoshi’s turn to look puzzled.  “I can hear whispering...”

The two of them stared around.  Nobody was near them.  Nor did anyone in the room appear to be holding a secret conversation with anyone else.

“Can you still hear it?” he asked.

“No ... it’s stopped...”  She paused.  “And it wasn't in Yb’oan.  Unless it was a dialect...”  A thread of an idea came to her, and she turned back to the panel again.

Was it possible?

She touched the metal again, a little more firmly this time.  And sure enough the whispering was louder.  Still hardly more than a thread by ordinary standards, but she could pick up the individual sounds now. 

Was this – could it be – some kind of a _transmitter?_

Her fingers still pressed to the metal, her face lighting up with excitement, she spun around.  The world, however, had gone haywire.  It looked as though it were breaking up, shattering into a hundred regular squares that each shattered into a thousand more.  All that was real was Travis, lunging towards her with terror on his face.

It took at least an hour for his outstretched hand to reach hers.  The sound of his voice shattered too, into a tumbling hail of broken fragments of sound that had once been _“Hoshi!”_

The last thing she felt was his fingers closing around her wrist.

And then there was darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

_“HOSHI!”_

The yell reverberated off the walls of the tomb, so loud that clouds of the dust of centuries were dislodged from crevices and floated in a golden haze into the torchlight.

For a moment Captain Archer was completely dumbfounded.  One second his self-contained tactical officer was apparently studying the panel that Trip was still convinced represented some form of electronics schematic, and the next he was barreling across the tomb, hurling VIPs and academics left and right before skidding to a halt in front of the panel Hoshi had been examining, and slamming both his fists on it as though trying to smash it off the wall by main force.

–Where _was_ Hoshi?  And Travis, come to that?  They’d been here just a minute ago–

“Captain!”  Malcolm whirled half-around, his face a mask of desperation as he gouged at the stone with his fingernails.  “They’ve gone!  They’ve both _gone!_ ”

Pushing officials out of his way with hardly more ceremony, Jon raced to join him.  Trip arrived only half a second later.  Considering that Vulcans presumably felt it beneath their dignity to run, T’Pol certainly must have whisked her way in from the next chamber, because she was right on the chief engineer’s heels.

“What do you mean, ‘gone’?” demanded Jon, grabbing his tactical officer by the shoulders.  “Where did they go?  What happened?”

“I don’t know – I – the air just – _opened!_ ”  His expression dazed and almost frantic, the Englishman sketched an upright motion almost like an opening book in the air with his hands.  “I saw her fall, and – Trav– Ensign Mayweather grabbed her, and – the air just folded up again!”

“Everyone stand away from that wall!”  That was the first and most obvious order, and that command included his tactical officer, who had to be practically dragged away to what might be thought a respectful distance.

There was chaos, with practically everybody in the room asking questions and exclaiming; some, of a more nervous disposition, had already fled, and quite a few looked ready to follow them.  In the meantime, he didn’t let go of Malcolm, feeling rebellion quivering under his hands.

“Sir, I have to go after them!” the Brit exclaimed.

“Until we know _where_ they went and _how_ they went, Mister, you’re staying right where you are.”  He glanced at T’Pol.  “Any theories?”

“Until or unless we can use scanners, Captain, I have insufficient information to form one.”

Jon turned to – if not on – their host.  “Did you have any idea something like this could happen?”

To give him credit, Ivashty was one of those who had stayed put.  He seemed as frightened as everyone else, but his immediate protests of innocence sounded convincing enough.

“Have those – those _things_ been scanned?” the captain demanded.

“There seemed no need!” bleated the archaeologist.  “Using scanners might have damaged the carvings, and we had no idea–!”

 _“Then they’re going to be scanned now!”_ He gestured to Trip.  “Get up to the surface and get the ship to send some down.”

From her expression, he knew T’Pol was contemplating warning him of the dangers of causing a diplomatic incident.  Right now, however, the last thing on his mind was whether tracking down his missing officers would be taken as insulting.  Whatever had to be done he’d do it, if it meant breaking that damned carving into little pieces.

It appeared that she got the message.  She made no objection as Trip hurried out of the chamber. 

“Until we find out a heck of a lot more about whatever these things are and what they do, nobody – _nobody_ – is to touch that wall.”  His grip on his tactical officer’s arm tightened to one that must have been painful, but Malcolm’s glare at the offending carvings remained unabated.  “In the meantime, I suggest that somebody alerts the authorities to the fact that there’s a situation here and we’ve got two missing officers.  I’d be glad of any help or advice anyone might feel able to offer.”

“I suggest, sir, that the most sensible course of action is to empty the tomb,” said T’Pol coolly.  “Until we have more information, we have no way of knowing how far the effects of the ‘phenomenon’ that Mister Reed witnessed may stretch.  Nor of what precipitated it.  If it was accidental, as would seem likely, then anyone else may do so again.”

“Sub-commander, _anything_ may have happened to them – or _be_ happening to them right this minute,” snapped Malcolm.  “Every minute’s delay increases the chance that we may not find them safe!”

The Vulcan’s brown eyes returned his hostile stare calmly.  “Until we know _how_ to find them, Lieutenant, then the question of speed is academic.  But on the other hand, the safety of others is paramount.”

It seemed that the Yb’oan authorities agreed with her assessment.  As soon as those responsible for guarding the site received news of what had happened, the tomb was cleared with all speed.  The offers of the visitors to help, using the specialized scanning equipment that had been transported down from the ship, were firmly if politely declined.  Yes, the officials said, they too were deeply concerned with the fate of the two missing persons and would make every effort to hasten their safe return.  In the meantime, they were duty bound to ensure that no-one else went the same way.

And, deaf to further protests and representations, they sealed the tomb and requested the visitors from _Enterprise_ to return to their ship.  There would, of course, be regular updates on progress.  Everyone was sure that very soon there would be a happy outcome and the captain’s two missing officers would be returned to him safe and sound.

Protocol prevented the level of protests that would normally have been made.  It seemed that for the moment the visitors had no choice.  To persist would indeed have provoked a serious diplomatic incident.

Silently they returned to the shuttle. 

The little craft seemed very empty on the return flight.  Captain Archer took the helm himself so that he wouldn’t have to stare at Trip’s back and wonder where Travis was right now.

‘Regular updates on progress.’  Well, that depended on the Yb’oan definition of ‘regular’.  After all, once a year every year could be defined as ‘regular’.

As soon as he got back to the ship he’d contact Starfleet.  Until then, however, it seemed his hands were well and truly tied.


	4. Chapter 4

_“Heeweg!  J’zakthi fai’sh faltur k-ammen!  J’zakthi fihor!”_

At first it was no more than an unknown voice forming unknown words, but even before Hoshi’s conscious mind had begun to recognize that she was awake, the part of her brain that was a super-processor for language had begun its work.

She was accustomed to recognizing the developmental paths of languages, to tracing the evolution of modern from ancient tongues. 

If she hadn't had a thorough grounding in its modern descendant, and acquired a nodding acquaintance with the original of that, she’d have struggled rather more.  As it was, the patterns began to fall into place.  It was, indeed, a variant of Ancient Yb’oan.

_“Awaken!  J’zakthi commands the …something… the voice … J’zakthi calls!”_

She was too scared to open her eyes.  She kept her breathing slow and even. As long as she didn't open her eyes, as long as she didn't let them know she was awake, then she could pretend she was dreaming.  She could pretend that she’d wake up and find herself in her cabin back on _Enterprise_ , and all of this would just be something she could sit in the Mess and relate to her friends over breakfast, and they’d all have a damn good laugh over how realistic it had all been.

Or maybe she’d be in Sickbay.  Yes, that would make more sense.  She could remember something horrible happening, and she didn't want to know exactly what, but Phlox would have some comforting explanation, and the captain would be there to assure her that everything was okay now.

… Travis!

… She couldn't hear his voice.  Maybe he wasn't here, maybe he wasn't okay.

She had to know about Travis.  With a terrified little gasp she opened her eyes.

… _Malcolm?_

Not Malcolm, though the face was the same; not unless the sober Brit had taken to painting patterns along his cheekbones and jaw in black paint, and caking his hair in what looked like black clay.  And it was virtually impossible to imagine the lieutenant draping his body in sheets of black fabric, secured by silver pins.  For any reason.

The speaker, though, who was hovering over her, she didn’t know; some bald old guy with bad breath and a variation on the face-paint.  Seeing her eyes open, he drew back with a satisfied grunt and bowed himself away, leaving the field for the person who emphatically was _not_ the tactical officer of _Enterprise._ Her acute hearing tracked the sound of the old guy’s bare feet padding across the tiled floor, and a door squeaked open and then closed again.

She cast a quick look around.  She was lying on what seemed to be a couch, in a large, airy room whose ceiling was supported by pillars.  These, like the walls, were bright with color: frescoes, portraying a multitude of scenes laid out in brilliant detail.  The fourth wall was open to a garden, thick with trees and plants.  Birdsong and the sound of water came in from it, though the quality of the light suggested that it was evening time.

Travis was nowhere in sight.

“The _hieth’a_ is recovered,” said the man who wasn't Malcolm.  His accent wasn't English (it wouldn't be, of course), but his voice still sounded eerily like.  “The _Oo’oacu_ will be glad.”

“My … the … was with?”  Linguist or no, it was almost impossible to think of how to construct a sentence properly when you were scared practically witless.  About all she could remember was that formal Yb’oan speech did not use the personal pronouns ‘I’ or ‘you’.

The gray eyes hooded slightly.  “The _yamyne_ was taken to the Queen’s Rooms.  J’zakthi will cause inquiries to be made if the _hieth’a_ is concerned for his well being.”

“This kindness causes the sun to rise.”  The formal phrase of gratitude popped into her head from nowhere.

He inclined his head.  It seemed that he was about to turn away when there was the sound of another door opening, and someone else entered the room.  This person, whoever it was, was not barefooted; she could hear the distinctive slap of sandals, but the footfalls were lighter than those of the bald guy who’d just left.

J’zakthi/Malcolm did not move, but there was an indefinable sense of coiling warily into himself.  Hoshi followed his gaze, and swallowed another gasp.

It was Trip, and not Trip: swathed in white, a cloth so fine that the short white tunic beneath it was visible, but shot through with gold thread so that every so often a shimmer of brilliance fled across its folds as he moved.  A length of it was draped across his head, and held there by a band of gold that lay across his forehead.  More gold gleamed on bracelets up the length of his arms, and twinkled in the studs on his sandals.

He came to a halt perhaps a meter away.  Blue eyes bored into her, their expression coldly hostile.  “One told Hezafer the hieth’a was awake.”

“Doubtless Hezafer is glad the hieth’a is well after all.”

It didn't need a qualified linguist to detect the note of irony in the reply.  Not that she needed telling; for some unguessed-at, horrible reason, not-Trip was anything but glad.  Presumably he was referring to himself by the name, though it was one of many High Yb’oan linguistic problems that referring even to oneself in the third person often induced doubt on that score.

“Hezafer would have offered the services of his personal physician.”

There was more irony in the faint inclination of the dark head with its clayey spikes of hair.  “It would appear that the services of Hezafer’s personal physician will not be required after all.”

“Nevertheless, the offer remains.”

“And should the physician’s services be required, J’zakthi will assuredly send word.”

That Hezafer had little expectation of receiving such a request was patently obvious.  He shared a venomous look between the two of them that sat oddly on Trip’s normally good-natured features, and swung around without another word.  His retreating footsteps were slower than they had been coming in; it seemed that he was concerned to appear dignified even in the face of apparent defeat.

J’zakthi watched his exit expressionlessly, and seemed about to depart in his turn, but Hoshi put out a nervous hand.  “The hieth’a would wish for… for news of her sick companion, if it would not be too great an imposition.”

The painted features studied her, inscrutable.  “J’zakthi will have inquiries made.  Word will be brought to the hieth’a.  In the meantime, the Oo’oacu must be told of her recovery.”

She nodded.  That, at least, she was sure was a gesture shared by both human and Yb’oan society as signifying assent.

“In the meantime, the hieth’a should sleep if she feels the need.  Or there is food, if she requires it.”  He gestured to a side table, where a meal was set out.  “If she needs help, she has only to call out.  J’zakthi’s servants will be within hail.”  And without more words, he walked out of the room, leaving her alone.

Sleep was not high on her list of priorities right now; she was in far more need of thought, desperate thought.  How the hell had she (and, presumably, Travis, though she hadn't encountered the word ‘yamyne’ before and didn't know what it meant) gotten here from the architectural dig at Boa’an’a?  And more importantly still, how the heck were they going to get back again?

Still, she knew from her survival training that food was one of her first priorities.  Though she wasn't feeling particularly hungry, she should eat what she could while she had the chance.

Reluctantly she sat up, steadying herself against a brief wave of giddiness. 

The small sound of metallic chiming alerted her to the fact that she was no longer wearing the desert climate uniform that had been thought appropriate for the visit to Boa’an’a.  Looking down at herself, she saw that she was dressed in a long, stiff blue linen sheath-dress covered in tiny, hammered bronze discs.  This reached almost to her ankles but was cut low, as well as being open from mid-thigh, and her instinctive reaction was to try to tug the two sides closer across her chest.  It was obviously intended to display her feminine charms, but she was uncomfortable with having quite _that_ much on view.  One unwary movement and she’d be on a charge of public indecency by Earth standards.

Her neck was encircled by what seemed to be some kind of flattened bronze torc.  There was a circular bezel of some design at the front of it, but even squinting downwards she couldn't make out what was on this; it was too close to the base of her throat.

Thinking to herself that one of her _next_ priorities would be to find something considerably less provocative to wear, she walked unsteadily on bare feet over to the table.  Small wax lamps set on it showed how dusk was advancing rapidly; the garden outside was getting significantly darker.  It felt weird, not being able to shut herself away from the outside world at night.  Weird, and not particularly safe, either, especially in the circumstances, but she supposed she’d be well guarded.  It was hard to imagine that J’zakthi guy taking chances with her safety given the presence of someone as openly hostile as Hezafer.

Even though she hadn't thought of herself as hungry, the smell wafting from the food there was appealing.  There was roast fowl and baked fish, with a side dish of vegetable rice and another heaped with what appeared to be some kind of salad.  To wash it down there was a carafe of wine and a goblet of what looked like carved obsidian to pour it into, but she looked at it doubtfully.  She wasn't sure how strong it was, and she wanted to keep her wits about her.  She had a feeling she might need them all.

She debated for a moment whether to summon one of her host’s underlings and ask for water to be brought, but the thought came to her that if this society was as primitive as she suspected, the water source would probably be primitive too.  It might be relatively clean, from a well, or from a river that was used as the dumping ground for a city’s rubbish.

On the whole, it was probably best to stick with the wine.  Though there was always the possibility that it might have been ‘got at’ in some way…

…Hell, now she was just letting her imagination run away with her.  Who the heck would want to put poison in her drink?

The memory of a cold blue glare crossed her mind, making her shiver.  She’d better get over thinking that resemblances could be any reliable guide to character – Starfleet training impressed on all cadets the extreme unwisdom of taking any new situation at face value. Hezafer certainly appeared hostile, but then he might have cause to be: J’zakthi and the _real_ ‘hieth’a’ could be his mortal enemies, determined on his destruction for their own purposes.

But _why_ did these two men resemble those back on _Enterprise_ , to whom they could have not the smallest relationship? Was it an indication that this was some construct of her own imagination?  Could she be hallucinating, and if so was there any way of making herself wake up? 

She pinched her own forearm, so hard that her nails left white indentations in the reddening flesh and she was hard put not to squeak with the pain.  If that didn't wake her up, nothing would.

Unfortunately, it didn't.  But then if this was a real, honest-to-god hallucination, it wouldn't, would it?  She could be just imagining that she was pinching herself.

At which point she gave herself a mental shake, and resolved to stop over-thinking the thing before her brain blew a fuse.  She might be hallucinating or she might not, but her only option was to treat the situation as though it was reality, and behave accordingly.

 _‘Though I’ll sure be grateful when Phlox wakes me up,’_ she thought dismally as she pulled the plate of salad closer and picked up the carved ivory spoon that was apparently her only eating implement.  One side of this had a serrated edge that helped it to also function as a knife, so she wouldn't be reduced to tearing the meat with her fingers, but she’d be duly grateful for a set of proper cutlery next time she sat down to eat in the Mess.

With a resigned sigh, she started eating.


	5. Chapter 5

“What the hell…”

Travis opened his eyes. 

He’d had worse awakenings, he reflected later.

Two very pretty women were staring down at him, their expressions of identical concern.

The next thing he noticed was that they didn't seem to be wearing a lot, apart from some pieces of fancy jewelry that didn't hide anything.

“Oh!  Uh, hi, ladies,” he said weakly, dragging his gaze up above chin level with an effort, as befitted a Starfleet officer on duty … at least he thought he was still on duty, because as far as he could remember that was where he’d been when ….

_“Hoshi?”_

He sat up, so that the two ladies had to jerk backwards in a hurry to avoid a collision.

Man, if this was a hospital he’d report sick every week.

The room was full of women – all of them very pretty.  And _none_ of them were wearing much.  He hardly knew where to look.

If he’d been off duty he would have appreciated the view enormously.  As it was, he was only human and he still couldn't help appreciating it quite a lot.  Nevertheless, none of the pretty women was Hoshi, and right now that was what concerned him most of all.

“Excuse me, but I need to find our ship’s communications officer…” 

Their blank expressions dissolved into enchanting giggles.  Which, while undoubtedly _most_ enchanting, were not helpful.

Of course – the UT must have gotten switched off.

He dropped a hand to his hip to switch it on again.

His searching fingers found only folds of soft leather, supple as water.  Startled, he looked down, to find that he was no longer clad in his beige Starfleet uniform but in a knee-length leather kilt.  His feet were in leather sandals, knotted at mid-calf.  His top half didn't seem to be wearing anything at all except for a heavy gold pendant on a chain.

Of the UT, or of anything else that pertained to Starfleet and reality, there was no sign.

Even as he again muttered “What the _hell–?”_ two of the pretty ladies fluttered away through a doorway, leaving the bead curtain across it tinkling musically in their wake.

At a guess, they’d gone to inform somebody that he was once more in the land of the living.  In the meantime he could take in a little more of his surroundings.

Making a conscious effort to politely ignore (as best he could) the parts of his surroundings that weren't wearing very many clothes, Travis gazed around him.  It was a beautiful large room, its lamp-lit walls spectacularly frescoed with scenes that made you feel you were in some kind of rich garden.  Painted birds flaunted their jewel colors among painted trees, set against a cloudless sky.

It didn't have much by way of furniture, apart from the bed he was lying on – a very broad bed, that had no mattress but a plentiful supply of soft pillows, and was draped with various rich fabrics – and assorted couches.  One or two of these looked as if they were rather specifically designed, and he averted his gaze from them hurriedly.  He was starting to get an idea of what sort of a place this was, and if his guess was correct he couldn't even imagine what _he_ was doing in it.

The bead curtain tinkled again.  It heralded the return of the two pretty ladies, who evidently hadn't taken the opportunity to add anything to the sum of their attire.  Not that he minded that, particularly…

In their wake, however, was a third lady, who shook off their escort as though they were as inconsequential as raindrops from a flying shower and advanced on the visitor with long, confident steps.

Her face was heavily but beautifully made up, though the elegant bones beneath needed no ornament.  It was a painted mask, dramatic and lovely, in which the large brown eyes were emphasized and elongated by sweeping lines of black.

It took him a moment to look beneath it.

 _“Sub-commander?”_ he said incredulously.

Fortunately, she was rather better provided for in the dress stakes; though the ultra-fine yellow linen in which her body was swathed was practically transparent, it bore strategically placed clusters of gems which allowed one the illusion that you couldn't actually see behind them if you looked hard enough.  Travis, being an officer and a gentleman as well as a hugely embarrassed young man in the presence of an effectively naked female senior officer, convinced himself immediately that you couldn't.  This effectively canceled what would otherwise have been a highly inappropriate compulsion.

She came to a halt and surveyed him with surprised disdain.  _“Ve halla_ ‘sub-commander’, Yamyne?”

 _Oo-kay, severe case of mistaken identity._   He remembered with a rush of apprehension the panel in the tomb where the people portrayed there had looked so familiar….

He was in big trouble.  He could take a guess – incredible as it might be – as to what had happened and where he was.  The chances were that Hoshi was here too, somewhere.  But he didn't speak a word of the language, and nobody on this world understood English.

“Hoshi?” he asked, with little hope.

 _“Ho-shi?”_ She repeated the word like it was in a foreign language.  Heck, to her it _was._ Come to think of it, it was to him too, except that he’d forgotten that long ago.  Now it was the name of one of his family, his _Enterprise_ family – a young woman whom he regarded in the light of a kid sister, and with whom he waged a perennial prank war that so far (they hoped) had escaped the notice of the senior officers.  Well, maybe not _all_ of the senior officers, but so far nobody had said anything.

There was a knock on one of the doors and one of the decorative young ladies went to answer it.  A few low-voiced sentences were exchanged.  The young lady glanced at him and at the watching queen as she spoke, and after a few moments the person outside went away again.

She approached the queen, her attitude one of humility.  Her words were too swiftly spoken for him to catch most of them, but he heard the word ‘yamyne’ again, and at it both of the women’s eyes went to him.

“Please.”  He knew it was pointless, since they wouldn't understand a word of it, but maybe just the tone of his voice would convey something.  “Hoshi – I came here with _Hoshi_.  We’re from the future.  A long way in the future.  If you can just take me to her, we can explain…”

The queen said something, her voice gone quiet and wary, with anger underneath it.  At once one of the other women approached, carrying a goblet of what looked like red wine from a flask on a side table, and offered it to Travis.

This was difficult.  On one hand if it really was wine he shouldn't drink on duty; on the other, to refuse to do so would almost certainly cause grave offense.

He decided that in the circumstances he couldn't afford to offend anybody.  He accepted the goblet and took a sip of the contents.  It was good: rich and fruity.  He took a bigger mouthful.

The queen asked him something.  He understood the tone all right, but not the words.

“I beg your pardon?  I’m sorry, I can’t understand you.”  He lifted the goblet.  “Thank you.  It’s really good.”

This was evidently not what was required.  The lovely painted face was too regal to scowl, but the mouth tightened.

“Hieth’a _gwarvar_ yamyne.  Gwarvar _–”_ She pointed at him with one beautifully painted fingernail.

“Me?”  He pointed at himself.  “Someone wants me?”

“Hieth’a gwarvar yamyne,” she repeated coldly. 

“Hieth’a – Hoshi?  That’s what you call her?”

They stared at one another.  None of the other women dared to giggle, though it seemed that some of them would rather have liked to.

“Yamyne afaar hieth’a aku.” The fingernail pointed towards the window, presumably at the sky beyond it from which the sun had now vanished, and described an arc downwards through the floor and back level with the horizon.  “Oo’oacu afaar hieth’a, appu yamyne afaar hieth’a.”

“Tomorrow.”  Travis nodded eagerly.  “You’re saying I’ll see her tomorrow.”

The brown eyes blinked slowly, suggesting that the queen was satisfied that they had reached some form of understanding.  Whether it was correct remained to be seen, but the young helmsman was reasonably confident that the gesture she’d made represented the movement of the sun as understood by civilizations that hadn't yet realized that they lived on a planet that circled a star.  From their point of view, the sun went underground during the night.  Something was going to happen tomorrow, and he very much hoped that he’d correctly understood the rest of it.

He didn't particularly want to wait till the next day to rejoin his fellow ensign.  He’d much rather have set off in search of her at once.  But the surroundings in which he found himself suggested that he was in a very, very large building, perhaps even a palace – if the woman opposite him was indeed a queen, then that was entirely probable.  Not only was it unlikely that he would find Hoshi readily, but it was even less likely that he would be given free run around the place to look for her.

By dint of sign language, the queen then told him that he should eat and sleep.  She indicated the woman who had answered the door to the messenger, and it was obvious that he should follow her.

He wasn't really tired, or particularly hungry, but co-operation seemed to offer his best prospects, at least for the time being.  Come tomorrow, he might have a better idea of what was going on around here.  And – he reminded himself, drawing on his usually ample fund of optimism – he mustn't forget, or give up hope, that _Enterprise_ would be raising hell in search of them.  Captain Archer would never give up on a lost member of his crew.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said politely.


	6. Chapter 6

Still no word.

Captain Archer woke from a troubled, broken sleep, feeling as though he hadn't closed his eyes all night.

He’d given orders to the comm officers of both beta and gamma shifts to call him immediately if there was any contact from the planet below.  From the continuing silence, it would seem that there hadn't been. 

No progress.

Had there been any actual _investigation?_

He’d always had a problem with patience.  T’Pol, for one, could testify to that; how often, early in the voyage, he’d led his crew to near-disaster with his refusal to emulate the Vulcans’ cautious approach to exploring new planets.  The first they’d visited could so nearly have been the cause of deaths among the away party, thanks to a hallucinogen in the flower pollen that had induced paranoia and eventually death in anyone who breathed it over a period of a few hours.  She’d carefully – if not ostentatiously – refrained from pointing out afterwards that had he followed her advice, a dangerous and potentially fatal episode might have been avoided.

Nevertheless, in the current situation it really seemed as though his impatience for news was at least partly justified.  Even if he couldn't fairly expect results on demand, surely the people down there would be doing _something?_

On his orders, the ship was being held in geosynchronous orbit above the plateau.  Although the Yb’oa had refused them permission to scan the tombs with the equipment they’d beamed down the day before, they hadn't (in so many words) mentioned the ship’s own scanners.  If nothing was done soon, he was going to give his science officer the order to find out what she could on their own account, and be damned to the diplomatic consequences.

He had little appetite for breakfast.  Trip, invited to share it with him, seemed to have even less – an unusual state for the chief engineer, who normally tackled his food with gusto.  T’Pol, similarly invited, cast sharp looks at the way Trip was shoving his food around his plate instead of eating it, but refrained from comment.

“Anyone have any ideas about where we go from here?” asked Jon finally, thinking he might as well name the elephant in the room.

“There has been no word from the planetary council.”  It was an affirmation rather than a question; his XO undoubtedly felt that if he’d heard anything, he would have informed them at once.

“They must be plannin’ on doin’ _something!_ ”  Trip burst out.

“I have no doubt that they _are_ ‘doing something’,” the Vulcan replied.  “It would be logical for them to call a meeting and discuss the problem, going over all the available evidence and their possible responses.  It may take time for them to come to a decision, and more time for them to assemble any equipment they decide to use.  Then it must be transported here, and they may not have sufficient capability immediately available.  Even when it is all assembled, they will undoubtedly wish to take extreme care with its use.  Remember, they are operating within a site of enormous archaeological significance.  They will undoubtedly be most anxious to avoid damaging an irreplaceable historical artifact, if at all possible.”

“Don’t they consider Hoshi and Travis to be ‘irreplaceable’?” snapped her favorite sparring partner.

“There are millions of humans in the universe, Commander.  There are only fourteen tombs at Boa’an’a.”  She raised a hand, forestalling his angry response.  “I do not say this to minimize the loss of Ensign Sato and Ensign Mayweather, to the ship or to their families.  I say it because the Yb’oa are essentially an extremely pragmatic species, and that is a fact we should bear in mind when we assess their response to the situation.”

_Much like the Vulcans, in fact._ The disgusted reply ran through Jon’s mind, though he didn't voice it.  It was more of a habit these days than a genuine viewpoint; this was slowly changing, mostly through having her as his XO. 

“I guess we have to give it a little while longer,” he said finally.  “I don’t like it any more than you do, Trip, but we've got to give them a reasonable time to decide what to do.”

“They could be doin’ a whole lot more than they seem to be right now, Cap’n.”  The blue eyes were sparking with frustration and fury.  “Okay, they've gotta make plans, but as far as we can tell they've just shut the place up tighter’n a duck’s ass and _left_ it!”

“You would prefer them to lose other innocent people in the same way we did?” T’Pol inquired.

“Look.  I don’t know what’s happenin’ to Hoshi and Travis right now, and nor do you.  But I’d feel a darn sight better if wherever they are, they had some kind of back-up.  Even if the council would just let _us_ back in there.  A coupl’a volunteers–”

“Who could be going to their deaths,” Jon interrupted.  He hated saying it almost as much as he hated thinking it.  But in the darkness of the night he’d had to face the possibility that maybe the two young ensigns weren't even alive anymore.  Maybe that ‘enfolding’ process Malcolm had tried to describe had been some kind of weapon, some phenomenon that simply annihilated its victims without leaving even a trace.

It was a horrible thought, envisaging the Bridge without Travis’s cheerful presence at the helm or Hoshi’s alert competence at the comms station.  Once breakfast was done, they’d all have to go up there and act normally.  In common decency, they couldn't do any differently; none of this was the fault of the crew-members who’d be standing in for the missing officers.

“Could be.”  Trip’s face was resolute; he looked older than his years.  “But I’ll guess even if you make that plain, you’ll still get offers to go look.  Me, for one.”

“The suggestion is absurd,” said T’Pol sharply.  “You are _Enterprise_ ’s chief engineer.  Your expertise is vital to the ship’s welfare.”

“I know that.”  A grin flashed.  “That’s why I plan on comin’ back.”  He turned to Jon.  “And I’ll name someone else who’ll be at the top of the queue.”

He didn't, of course; he didn't have to, thought Jon wearily.

Apparently his XO thought the same.  “So you are of the opinion that it is a logical option to risk the lives of two Heads of Departments on a gamble with unknown odds to rescue two junior officers who may in fact be beyond help.”

“This whole mission’s a gamble, Sub-commander.  Surprised you hadn't noticed that.”

“A gamble where the odds are _assessed_ and wherever possible _reduced!_ ” 

“Time we were getting up to the Bridge.”  The captain pushed away his own half-emptied plate, reflecting that for a member of a species famed for their self-control, T’Pol’s was certainly showing signs of fraying.  “I’ll bear your suggestion in mind, Trip.  But for the moment, we wait to hear from the Yb’oa.”

His friend didn’t argue, probably guessing accurately that he wasn’t in the mood for it.  But the long hiss of exhaled breath said as clearly as words that he’d accept his superior officer’s decision…

… At least for now.


	7. Chapter 7

“The _zarh_ J’zakthi sends his respects, and trusts that the hieth’a passed a peaceful night.”

A scared-looking girl was standing by Hoshi’s bedside.  She was about nine or ten years of age, at a guess.  Her hair was neatly brushed and braided, and she was clean, but on the skinny chest there were four black stripes like claw-marks.

Dawn had broken outside.  The sky wasn't visible from here, but sunlight glowed on the uppermost tips of the vegetation, and birds were singing again.

“Take the zarh my gratitude, please,” said Hoshi, stifling a yawn.  “I slept well.”

Surprisingly well, as a matter of fact; except that her High Yb’oan hadn't caught up, because she’d used the _I_ form from Modern Yb’oan.  No wonder the girl looked puzzled and alarmed.

“The hieth’a slept well,” she amended quickly.  “The hieth’a would ask the zarh if there is any news of her companion.  The zarh said that he would have inquiries made.”

The servant bobbed respectfully.  “The zarh will hear the hieth’a’s request.”

The palace was surprisingly sophisticated in some respects.  The room had a bathroom next door, with a toilet of sorts above a drain in which she could hear water running.  It also had a large bowl of warm scented water, a jug containing more of the same, and several neatly folded lengths of cloth that were plainly towels.

She struggled to prize her body out of the gown – she’d slept in it, in case anyone came in while she was asleep.  Nevertheless the garment was hot, as well as indecent, and she was certain she’d be able to contrive something out of a couple of the drapes across the bed. She’d brought them in and put them ready to snatch up if some unexpected visitor materialized.

It was just as well, for one did.

If her hearing had not been so superb, she would have missed the sound of his approach altogether.  As it was, she just had time to pull one of the swathes of cloth across her body as the shell curtain across the door tinkled, announcing his arrival.

“One has informed J’zakthi the hieth’a slept well,” her host remarked, coming to a halt just inside the doorway, where he stood calmly, showing no awareness that his guest was flushing with indignation and embarrassment as she hid her nudity.  “The news brightens his heart.”

Hoshi stared at him, trying to get some measure of him.  Beneath the paint (or was it a tattoo?) the resemblance to Malcolm was extremely strong, though she couldn't imagine the shy Englishman being so completely indifferent to the awkwardness of the situation.

“She should be aware that the Oo’oacu is at his prayers,” he went on.  “As soon as he is done, he will wish to see the hieth’a for himself, to be assured that no harm has befallen her.  After that, the hieth’a may speak with the yamyne if she still so wishes.” 

“The hieth’a does still so wish.  She is grateful for the zarh’s kindness.”  She paused.  “Will – will the zarh Hezafer be present?”

He looked at her for a moment as though wondering what lay behind the question.  “The zarh himself could best answer that question,” he replied at last. “But it is likely.”

 _Damnation._ She bit her lip, aware that J’zakthi was watching her closely.  “The hieth’a would wish to speak to the yamyne in privacy.”

“Then it shall be arranged.”  He hesitated, before continuing, in a gentler voice, “J’zakthi is concerned.  The hieth’a does not seem herself.”

Well, _that_ was hardly surprising.  Nevertheless, the words sparked alarm in her.  She’d have to find some good excuse for her apparent departure from normal behavior.

Luckily, his next words gave her the opening she needed.

“It is not a thing to endure lightly, speaking with the gods.  The Oo’oacu will understand this.  He will not expect many words from the hieth’a until she has pondered her visions.”

“It was … beyond the telling.”  She lowered her eyes meekly.  “It will take much time before the hieth’a is able to speak of it.”

“Then as always, the hieth’a will speak when she sees fit.  And in the meantime, her women are waiting to make her ready.”

He did not quite bow as he left, but the inclination of his head seemed to indicate a degree of respect.

She’d hardly time to exhale before the curtain tinkled again and three women entered, one carrying another exotic-looking costume and the two others bearing trays of jewelry and cosmetics.  It was plain that they regarded her with some awe, and that they were shocked that she had gotten herself undressed without assistance. 

To assert her independence would probably be another flaw in her characterization.  Fortunately, the art of communication encompasses far more than just words; she was able to pick up very quickly what they expected her to do, and modify her behavior accordingly.

First they got her to stand over a grating covering the drain, and then they soaped her hair and body with some kind of strongly perfumed gel from an alabaster jar.  When she was sticky from head to foot they poured the water out of the jug over her head, ferrying in more (presumably other servants were waiting outside with refills) until they were satisfied she was completely rinsed.  Then they rubbed her with the towels until her skin tingled, sat her in a chair and began combing her hair and polishing her nails.  The one in charge of her hairdressing selected strings of tiny sparkling gems from one of the trays and began painstakingly plaiting them into her hair – each side of her scalp was carefully split into ten sections, and each was plaited.

While this was being done, the others started rubbing some kind of oil into her body.  The strokes of their hands were as firm as those of any professional masseuse, but it was still a sensual and stimulating sensation.  She found herself almost wanting to purr like a cat, but kept her face immobile with an effort.  It was unlikely in the extreme that the woman she was supposed to be would find anything unusual in this service; or that she would allow herself to betray gratitude for it.

When it was over, they skillfully applied cosmetics to her face – this included painting on some intricate design – and then dressed her.  Today she was in deepest aquamarine, a figure-hugging dress that once again plunged perilously over her breasts but was so closely fitted around the legs that she could only take small steps.  They fastened sandals on her feet, the straps adorned with little tinkling copper bells.  The fantastically ornate necklace they arranged carefully over her collarbones last of all was also of copper; it bore clusters of amber flowers suspended on wires so fine that they trembled as she breathed.  She couldn't imagine the time and skill that must have gone into making it.

Finally they appeared to think she was ready to face the world – and in particular the ‘Oo’oacu’, whoever this guy might be.  Since the word seemed to have no modern descendant, she guessed that it was a title that had been obsolete for hundreds, if not thousands, of years.  Clearly he was some kind of ruler.  And clearly her well-being was of concern to him, a fact which tied into her belief that she – or, more accurately, the person whose body she was occupying – was a person of some importance in her own right.

There were so many questions she wanted to ask, but could not.  Her primary anxiety was for Travis; she was struggling, and she could at least speak the language, however imperfectly.  It was unlikely that he’d managed to pick up more than a couple of words, especially given the fact that nobody would understand why he couldn't talk Yb’oan.  She wondered what the hell people thought had happened to the both of them, and how she was supposed to find out.  Still, it seemed that she was going to be meeting him soon, and maybe with a little care and cunning she could contrive for them to stay together.  Because if they were to find out how they’d got here – and more importantly, how they were to get back again – then their chances would be far better together; and besides, if by any chance _Enterprise_ somehow managed to mount a rescue, then their task would be made far simpler if both the targets were in one place.

A few moments later the sound of bronze gongs resounded through the palace.

Somehow she wasn't surprised to find J’zakthi waiting silently and without apparent impatience on the other side of the curtain.

“The Son of the Sun will wish to speak with the hieth’a,” he said calmly.  “If it is her wish, J’zakthi will accompany her.”

Naturally, she wasn't in a position to refuse; she wouldn't have the first idea where to go.  Nevertheless she glanced at him shrewdly.  It didn't take a genius to deduce that there was some kind of power struggle going on here, and she was a pawn in it – a pawn with power, but a pawn nonetheless.  It behooved her to tread warily, discounting as far as possible what must be no more than a freak resemblance to a man she could trust.  The other ‘zarh’ resembled Trip externally, but undoubtedly that was as far as the similarity went.  For all his fair words, this man here could be just as ill-intentioned but far better at concealing it.

“The hieth’a would wish it,” she replied, without expression.  All those poker games back at the Academy were finally paying off.  She could keep her face as bland as a piece of blank paper when she wanted to.

Again he inclined his head slightly.  He stepped into position beside her, turned towards the door and extended his forearm and left hand, straight fingers bent backwards so that the thumb, uppermost, pointed directly forward.  It was quite plain that it was an invitation to which he expected her to respond.

It was obviously some kind of ‘proprietary’ gesture.  To concur in it would undoubtedly give him some kind of leverage.  On the other hand, to refuse it would undoubtedly cause offense.

She wasn't sure what the correct response would be.  Putting her hand on his arm would probably be very marked.  A compromise was called for – if she could get it right.  That position of the fingers seemed very significant.

Hoping for the best, she rested the fingertips of her right hand lightly on top of his index finger.

It seemed to pay off; at any rate, he gave no indication of noticing anything amiss, so that she breathed out a long, soundless breath of relief.  With no further words, and measuring his pace carefully to her necessarily restricted one, he led her away through the palace.


	8. Chapter 8

The sound of the bronze gongs roared through the room, so loud and unexpected that Travis almost leaped from the bed on which he’d been sound asleep.  It sounded as though they were right next door, and he really wasn't used to being woken in quite such a dramatic fashion.

The reaction unleashed an explosion of giggles among the four young women who had evidently just arrived in his room.  He was relieved beyond measure that he’d been awoken – even so unceremoniously – before they reached him, because they were carrying bowls of water and cloths, and wearing expressions that could only be described as ‘expectant’.

…Well, ‘predatory’ might have been stretching it, but not _very_ far.  And considering they once again weren't wearing a whole lot other than those sinisterly significant expressions, Travis was seized by a horrified conviction that he was expected to allow them to wash him.

“ _Oh_ , no, ladies,” he said hastily, putting out a hand to fend them off.  “If you’d just put the water down there, I can…”

Their expressions of disappointment smote him.  At pretty well the same moment that temptation whispered in his ear that he was supposed to fit in with the routine around here, and if this was what happened to the other guy every day… “Well, maybe just this once,” he said weakly, dropping his hand.  And trying unobtrusively to shift position so that it wasn't immediately obvious that the prospect of four very scantily-clad pretty young ladies washing him down was having a very noticeable effect on his southerly regions; the cotton kilt he’d been given as bed-wear wasn't particularly restrictive.  Man, he was going to have some story to tell Paul when he got back to _Enterprise_ and was able to send the tale of his latest adventure to the _Horizon._ Better add a note to remind him not to share this particular portion of it with Mom, though.

The conflicting behavioral requirements of a normal, healthy young man and a Starfleet officer became practically unendurable in the next few minutes.  Because this wasn't, well, it wasn't that he wasn't enjoying it, in fact he was enjoying it enormously, but hell, it was going to leave him with one heck of an outstanding problem….

However, he shortly became aware that something was different.  The women didn't seem to notice anything, if their giggles were anything to go by, but …

He hadn't noticed anything the night before, but he’d been too tired to notice anything much.  It wasn't like he’d showered or anything (he’d been hoping to get a wash first thing this morning), but his bladder had functioned so he knew there was no problem there.

But…

He suddenly realized, on a wave of sickening horror, why he was allowed to run loose in a harem.

It hardly needed physical confirmation, and in fact he had the distinct feeling that if he put his hand down there and felt nothing but scarring where his testicles should be, he’d quite probably pass out on the spot.  He could feel the blood draining out of his face, and it was perhaps hardly surprising that his other problem was solved in the same manner.

He thought he was going to be sick.

It helped, a bit, to tell himself fiercely over and over again that this wasn't ‘his’ body; that Captain Archer would rescue him and Hoshi somehow, and that when he returned to _Enterprise_ he’d find that everything was okay again.  Nevertheless he felt weak with shock; he swayed, and had to press his hands hard to the marble surface of the bed, both to support himself and to prevent them from shaking visibly.  It might not be ‘his’ body, but it was someone’s; someone who must have lived through that agony in a world where there were no anesthetics or even pain relief.  He himself might not have suffered the mutilation in person, but even imagining it happening to the body he was in made his senses swim.

His reaction must have been obvious.  The mood of the women changed in a moment from flirtatious to cooing concern.  They stopped messing around and coaxed him to lie back down, and one of them ran to fetch warmed wine that put heart into him, even if he did reflect as they helped him to sit up again and sip at it that if he wasn't careful he’d be in a permanent state of intoxication.

Soon, however, it was obvious that they had to get him ready for some occasion or other – hopefully, a prelude to his reunion with Hoshi.  He finished washing and attended to his bodily needs in a nearby bathroom, which helped to steady him slightly.  Then servants brought in a change of clothing, a somewhat longer kilt of some silky, dark green fabric plus a sash of the same material to lie across his torso.  The gold pendant of the day before was taken away from him, presumably to be locked up in safety again, but instead he was given a heavy pectoral of silver, its boss shaped like a plunging hawk, wings half-folded and talons outstretched. 

He let them dress him, too shaken and disoriented to either help or put up much resistance.  He was pinning all his hopes now on one thing – finding Hoshi.  She was bound to have gotten a handle on the language; if only they could contrive some way to stay together, some of the sense of nightmare might let him go.

When he was ready, they took him to the queen’s apartments.  In the midst of a bevy of attendants, she was obviously just having the final touches put to her magnificence: a servant was sprinkling gold dust carefully on her toenails in their exquisite sandals.  The fabric of her dress was the same shade of green as his tunic and sash, but so heavily encrusted with gold and jewels that he found himself bracing against the weight in sympathy as he watched her stand up.  Her face had been painted, complex and beautiful asymmetrical patterns in green and gold.  There were gold bracelets twisting up her arms.  Last of all, one of her attendants reverently placed before her a cushion with a crown on it – a strange affair that resembled a tangle of golden twigs, studded here and there with what looked like emeralds.

She lifted it and placed it on her head, staring into a mirror of burnished silver on the wall.  Only when she was satisfied with her reflection did she turn and glance at Travis.  It was probably too much to expect her to nod approval, but the fact that she didn't scowl was probably enough of a compliment.  Much to his relief, the fabric was so thick with embroidery it didn't even hint at being transparent, but the style was evidently intended to make the most of a magnificent cleavage, to which normally his eyes would have been drawn as though magnetized.  Now, however, the discovery he’d just made about his own physical condition had completely swept the gloss off the way attractive women seemed pretty well served up on a plate around here, visually at least.  Although he seemed to be presenting a good enough front to the world, inside he still felt hollow and cold.  He wanted to find Hoshi and he wanted to go home.  A world where they could do this to a man was sick and terrifying, and he wanted no more of it.

At the queen’s nod, more servants dropped a baldric across his body, lying atop the sash, and buckled the handle-loop of a gold-bladed ax to the base of it. He’d noticed the edge of what looked like some kind of weapon in the representation in the tomb; it was now clear that this was it.  Presumably its function was more ceremonial than practical – it was hardly possible for him to bend down and test whether the blade was sharp, but even so a hard blow with the edge, delivered to the right place, would quite probably kill.  Its weight suggested that it was plated with gold rather than solid, which was something to be thankful for.  The handle was bound with red leather, stitched with gold, and so were the baldric and the securing loop. 

Even if its function was purely ceremonial, he still felt better for having it.  Admittedly Starfleet weapons training had been weak on how to wield an ax to best effect, but even an amateur could do some pretty spectacular damage just flailing one around.  And hell, he’d flail with the best of them if anyone showed signs of wanting to carry out any more surgery….

A trio of men, so gorgeously dressed they were probably of some rank, was waiting outside the door, doubtless as an escort.  The queen fell into step behind them, and he fell into step behind her.  She certainly hadn't given any indication that he should precede her, and he seemed to have some kind of protective function so it made sense for him to walk close to her.

The tomb paintings hadn't exaggerated the wealth and beauty of the surroundings in which its owner had lived.  The flooring consisted of interlocking hexagonal marble tiles, polished to a dangerous sheen. Every wall was gloriously painted in brilliant colors; every pillar was carved from top to bottom with stunning artistry.  Doors were inlaid with gold and precious stones.  Tables stood here and there, seeming to have no purpose but to display works of art in alabaster and jade and onyx, their workmanship simply breathtaking; it was all he could do not to slow his steps and gawk like some country yokel as one delight after another caught his gaze.  As for what Ivashty and his ilk would have made of it … well, if they thought the tomb was spectacular, this was a hundred, a _thousand_ times more so.

The little group soon reached a pair of magnificent doors that plainly led somewhere very important indeed.  Richly dressed servants sprang to open these, and bowed as the queen’s party passed through. 

Travis took a deep breath as he followed them in.  Hopefully, within the next few moments, he’d get sight of Hoshi.

He didn't even want to realize how much he was depending on it.


	9. Chapter 9

“Still nothin’?”

It was hardly necessary to voice the question, but Trip asked it anyway.  The black look that met his across the Mess Hall had pretty well told him everything as soon as Malcolm came in.

Inactivity was driving him nuts.  He’d spent the day putting his team through entirely unnecessary drills for various unlikely contingencies, knowing there wasn’t a damn thing they weren’t already prepared for.  The fact that he hadn’t found a single mistake or even a potential area for improvement was paradoxically as much an irritant as it was a reassurance.  It would have been somehow an outlet for his impotent ire to have found something he could get mad about and _solve_.

It seemed that the head of the Armory team was suffering from a similar affliction.  Power readings from Malcolm’s domain had told him throughout the day that the targeting sensors were being tested within an inch of their lives all morning and that multiple battle simulations had been gone through in the afternoon.  On the way here he’d passed a couple of crewmen coming from the direction of the gym, and the sweat on them told its own tale.  For the last hour of today’s shift Reed had been scheduled to supervise self-defense training.  He was always a strict taskmaster, but at a guess anyone unlucky enough to be in his class today had been put through the wringer big-time.

Malcolm took the seat opposite him and set down the dinner-tray with a controlled care that spoke louder than any crash would have done.  “No,” he said briefly.  “I checked with Cunningham.  There’s been no contact from the planet.”  He picked up his fork and stabbed a piece of ravioli with some venom, but immediately put the fork down with the food untasted and sat staring at his plate.  “I feel so responsible.  And so damned helpless.”

“Now just hang on a goddamned minute, _Loo-tenant._ ”  Trip leaned forward, scowling.  “We were all there, remember.  You’re no more responsible than the rest of us were for what happened.”

The other man’s head came up.  He was pale, but his eyes held a hostile glitter.  “The safety of the crew is _my_ responsibility.  I should have checked out those – those – whatever they were.  Not just allowed two inexperienced ensigns to walk into danger and ….”

“… And ‘fore you go off imaginin’ the worst, we don’t know _what_ happened to ‘em,” the chief engineer interrupted.  “It’s not like we’ve found the bodies.  We just … ‘mislaid’ ‘em.  It’s just a case of findin’ out what happened and then we’ll have a chance of gettin’ ‘em back again.”

“But even if they weren’t killed outright, _anything_ could be happening to them in the meantime!”

“That’s the truth.”  He forced himself to speak calmly.  “But seems like the Yb’oa aren’t as worried about that as about their precious tomb.”

“Then someone should be!”  He made to stand, violently, but Trip was ready for that and grabbed his wrist, holding him still. 

“As it happens, Malcolm, that’s pretty well what I was thinkin’.”

Reed relaxed just a fraction.  He eyed his superior officer carefully, clearly weighing up what had not been said.  “Do I take it this is not to be discussed with the captain?” he asked at last, low-voiced.

“It’s not like the cap’n doesn’t _care_ ,” Trip said finally.  “He’s worried out of his skull just like we are.  But he’s got Starfleet breathin’ down his neck, tellin’ him to go real easy on the Yb’oa.  Seems they’re scared anything we do’s gonna damage the tomb.  Bottom line, as far as they’re concerned, they’d rather have the tomb in one piece.  You tryin’ to dig your way into the wall when Travis an’ Hoshi disappeared kinda gave ‘em the impression we’re not that worried about what we break.”

“I’d reduce it to rubble if I thought it would help,” growled Malcolm.  “I’ve got the settings programmed in and ready.  Just let the captain give me the word!”

“Well, he won’t.  You know he won’t.  So I’ve been wonderin’ if there’s anything we could do by ourselves.  We could get ourselves down there okay, but the first problem’s gotta be how we break in.”

“It won’t be a problem.  Take it from me.”

Tucker exhaled.  “Lieutenant, I’m talkin’ about _sneakin’_ in.  The Yb’oa won’t need many guesses if they find their security devices in ten dozen pieces on the floor when they get up in the mornin’.”

“Oh, I’m talking about sneaking in too.  I have other talents than just blowing things up, Commander.  You’d be amazed.”  The gray eyes had gone cold and distant for a moment, and then flicked back to him.  “You’re prepared for what’ll happen if we get caught?  This will go on our records – an official reprimand, at the very least.  And if the Yb’oa press charges, it’ll be worse.  Depending on what happens, we’re risking our careers.”

“You have a problem with that?”

“No.”  He hesitated before continuing, “The problem I _do_ have is the situation it’d put Captain Archer in.  Not just with the Yb’oa, but with Starfleet.  Two of his senior officers deciding to bypass his authority and precipitating a diplomatic crisis – it’s not going to look good on his record either.”

That thought had occurred to Trip too, but he’d tried not to dwell on it.  “I guess we’ll just have to make sure we don’t get ourselves caught.”

“Finding ourselves on hands and knees on the Bridge just the once was enough.  Right in front of Subcommander T’Pol…” 

The memory was enough to make both of them shudder; and it didn’t help much that it reinforced the fact that Captain Archer had lectured them both about unauthorized excursions to an area they were strictly forbidden to visit, punishing them with a period of being confined to quarters.  His reaction if they were found in another was likely to be both disappointed and furious.  Having warned them once, and let them off relatively lightly, he certainly wouldn’t pull his punches in the matter of retribution.

Unable to hide a grimace at the prospect of enduring a second and far worse tongue-lashing, and causing Jon some serious embarrassment he didn’t deserve, Trip took a gulp of his coffee.  “I don’t _wanna_ do it,” he admitted.  “But I just don’t know how long we’re supposed to hang around here waitin’ for something that’s not gonna happen.”

“A week.”  Reed’s expression was closed and cold again.  “That’s what the regulations say.  After that, they’ll be listed as ‘Missing, presumed dead’.  And we’ll resume course without them.”

“Only that long?”  He put the mug down, aghast.

A shrug.  “Unless the captain manages to persuade Starfleet to let us stay longer.  And in the circumstances, I think that comes under the heading of ‘unlikely’.”

“Four more days.”  Trip brooded.  “Well.  I’ll give it two, and then I think it’s time for us to make our move.  You okay with that?”

“More than.  In the meantime, I’ll make plans.  If we haven’t heard anything by this time Tuesday night, I suggest we meet in my cabin and decide what to do.”  With a dark look, Malcolm picked up his fork again and began eating.  The ravioli was undoubtedly cold by now, but then it was unlikely he knew what he was putting into his mouth, or indeed that he cared in the slightest.


	10. Chapter 10

It was just as well that Hoshi had accepted J’zakthi’s offer to accompany her to the encounter with the Oo’oacu, because she’d never have found her way there on her own.

The building was an absolute maze, corridor after corridor that after a while simply melted into a confused impression of color and wealth, populated by splendidly-dressed people who made way for the two of them as though they were radioactive.  Every face turned towards them with an expression of awe that bordered on fear.

Her companion seemed to notice nothing out of the ordinary.  He was more splendidly dressed today than he had been the day before; his long, loose black robes were of what looked like patterned silk, so long at the back that the hem whispered along the floor behind him.  He was wearing no jewelry except deep wristbands of black silk studded with tiny pearls in complex sigils, but from a long leather cord around his neck hung a plain, slender dagger with a blade of what looked like obsidian.

“The Chief Artisan is to be in attendance on the Oo’oacu,” he remarked presently, a propos (it seemed) of nothing in particular.  “The Oo’oacu has commanded the commissioning of the first of the panels for his Eternal House.  It is a day of great significance, as the hieth’a will be aware.  All hope that the gods will smile upon it.”  There was the smallest shift of emphasis, so slight that anyone with less keen an ear for tone than hers might well have missed it.  “Of course, a vision would be the most significant omen of all for such divine approval.”

“The gods send visions as and when they will,” she replied, keeping her voice neutral.  “The zarh surely knows this as well as the hieth’a does.”

“What the zarh knows and what the hieth’a knows and what the Oo’oacu hopes for are not always one and the same thing.”  His voice was silken, utterly without inflection.  “The zarh knows that the gods may not be commanded.  Nevertheless, the zarh may hope.”

“The hieth’a also hopes.  Everything that may be done, shall be.”  Hoshi kept her voice equally level.  No point in letting him know that the chances of her producing a ‘vision’ were zero; in a case like this, she was going to play it one-hundred-percent safe.  The Oo’oacu would have to do without his sign of divine approval, however disappointed he might be.

He nodded, and after a moment said, again with that odd gentleness, “The zarh admires the hieth’a’s courage, if she seeks the gods again so soon after what happened yesterday.”

It took her an effort to keep her face expressionless.  _What the hell happened yesterday?  Was it – was it something to do with the way Travis and I came here?_ She could hardly question him on that point, however.  Whatever she was to find out, she must do so alone.  And cautiously – surely they’d excuse her caution! – at least till she’d managed to get hold of Travis.

Maybe this was their way home.  She fought down the sudden wild surge of hope, buckling it down beneath grim determination.  If this ‘seeking the gods’ held out any prospect of getting back to their own time and their own people she’d seize it with both hands.  Until then, she just had to watch her step and play along.  And whatever happened, she had to get hold of Travis and keep him with her somehow.

A few minutes later they turned another corner – she’d long ago given up trying to keep count, or even any sense of direction – and arrived at a very large corridor indeed, one that seemed to run in a straight line for a great distance.  Away on their right, at the other side and perhaps twenty meters further down, was a huge pair of double doors.  Two guards in flashy armor stood on either side of it, each holding a great broad-bladed spear.

J’zakthi walked towards the door and between the guards with the ease of one to whom it would be unthinkable even to consider denying entry.  Hoshi matched him step for step, keeping her chin high.

As the new arrivals drew level, the innermost of each pair of guards set hands on the door and pushed.  The great wooden structures must have been incredibly heavy, but they were so finely balanced that they swung with remarkably little effort, and made no sound at all.

The pillared room within was vast, and so brilliant with color that it easily outstripped all those she’d seen before.  Bands of the palest imaginable gold spiraled up each pillar, with exquisitely detailed frescoes between them.  The floor was an expanse of alternating green, blue and white hexagonal marble tiles; the ceiling high above was made of wood, carved and gilded.

The far end was such a blaze of color and light that it took a moment for her eyes to adjust sufficiently to pick out detail.  Presently, however, she saw a figure on a throne, raised on a dais of four high steps.  There was a second, empty throne to the right of him, on the second step, and another on the third, opposite it.  Neither of these approached the magnificence of the central one.  It looked as though it was made of solid gold, draped with priceless fabrics and exquisite furs.  Tall windows all around the curved end of the room let in light that focused on it and lit it as though it was the only illuminated object in a dark room.

But there was plenty of light left over to pick out the court standing assembled around him.  There must have been over two hundred Yb’oan nobles and courtiers, each more splendidly dressed and bejeweled than his neighbor.  They were all men.  Presumably women were not admitted to this center of power; it was common among many primitive societies for their womenfolk to be regarded as the lesser, weaker sex, unsuited to any responsibility more demanding than child-rearing and home-making.

It seemed that the ‘hieth’a’ was an exception to this rule.

Hoshi set her jaw and stiffened her back as she and J’zakthi paced up the center of the long room.  She was one of _Enterprise_ ’s alpha bridge crew, one of Starfleet’s best.  She would show no feminine weakness that would play into this society’s disdain for women’s abilities.

Three men were standing facing the throne, at the foot of the steps.  One was standing at right angles to them.  It was soon evident that he was relaying their words to the Oo’oacu, who never looked at them.

The exchange had not quite finished by the time the new arrivals came to a halt some five meters behind the three, who were apparently explaining some shortfall in the expected tribute for that year.  Hoshi was briefly puzzled by the fact that they spoke to the oo’oacu’s representative rather than to the oo’oacu himself, because they were all speaking the same language and there was no modification of any kind in the relayed messages that would suggest some kind of translation.  Presumably it was beneath the oo’oacu’s dignity to listen to visitors from a vassal country, particularly when they were bringing news that was hardly likely to please him.

When the last speaker had concluded with an appeal for the Oo’oacu’s patience and goodwill, there was a little silence.  Then the hazel eyes of the man on the throne cut sideways to where one man was waiting, dressed in white robes that were an aching brilliance in that sea of vivid color.

Hezafer moved forward, his steps measured, his expression bland.  At a guess, he was authorized to propose some timetable for the shortfall to be made good.

Lying on the green marble of the bottom step of the dais was a long-handled jade ax.

He lifted and swung it before the three ambassadors had time to react.  It virtually decapitated the first before burying itself deep into the chest of the second.  This unfortunately caused the blade to become momentarily wedged between the man’s ribs, and as the ambassador toppled to the floor, gasping in agony, Hezafer jerked at it savagely to dislodge it, kicking him.

It was hardly surprising that the third man reacted, knowing all too well what his fate was to be when the zarh succeeded in getting the weapon free.  He spun around, dilated eyes seeking escape and finding nothing but the closed expressions of the courtiers who would not utter one word or make one move to save him.  If he made it to the door there were the guards beyond it.  He was going to die.

It was improbable that he thought through the consequences of his next action, even if he understood what they might be.  He threw himself towards Hoshi, whether to plead with her to intervene on his behalf or to take her hostage would never be known. 

Obsidian can be worked to produce an edge of razor sharpness.  J’zakthi moved with absolute economy of effort.  The blade ran with perfect precision into the hollow under the man’s jaw and buried itself in his brain.  The zarh’s left arm clamped around the dying ambassador, holding him upright just long enough for his right hand to neatly slip the cord from around his neck so that the blade could stay in place as the body was allowed to slip to the floor.

Straightening, he looked with cool disdain at Hezafer, whose white robes were spattered with scarlet.

Hoshi gulped desperately, swallowing vomit.  She knew that her face had gone pale.  _I can’t pass out, I can’t,_ she told herself over and over again, and fortunately it worked.  The buzzing in her ears receded, and her suddenly weak knees regained some of their steadiness.  She concentrated on taking long, deep breaths, forcing herself not to think about the bodies or the blood; trying instead to imagine herself back on the Bridge aboard _Enterprise_ rather than in the midst of these nightmare parodies of the people she knew and loved.

Nobody moved.  Nobody said anything.

Servants dived in, materializing from nowhere as it seemed, and dragged away three things that were making the floor untidy.  Others produced cloths and water, and cleaned up the mess, rubbing frantically at the tiles till they bore not a speck of red.  Still more ran to Hezafer and carefully disrobed him, removing the ruined, priceless gold-shot fabric and winding fresh in its place, while he stood motionless, his expression one of remote boredom.  As soon as he was pristine again he walked back to his previous place.

There was not so much as a fleck of blood on J’zakthi’s clothing.  The knife left in the wound had seen to that.  Presently one of the servants ran back in with it and presented it to him, bowing.  The blade had been wiped clean.  Quietly, his face showing nothing, he slipped the cord back around his neck.

Not until every last scrap of evidence of the entire episode had been tidied away did anyone stir, almost as though they’d all been caught into some magical trance while unpleasant but necessary things went on to restore the world to its proper order.

At that moment two things happened.

J’zakthi stepped forward to take up the place previously occupied by the unfortunate ambassadors.  She automatically stepped with him.

And a door opened in the wall behind the oo’oacu, and a small number of gorgeously-clad people entered.  Most of them moved automatically to left or right, taking up places among the courtiers flanking the dais.  One, however – a woman – walked to the throne on the third step and took her seat on it with aloof dignity.  It was not she who captured Hoshi’s gaze, however, despite the fact that the face beneath the green and gold paint looked eerily familiar, but the man who walked behind her and took up position directly behind the throne.  His eyes roamed the faces in front of him until they latched on to hers, and it was immediately obvious that for a split second he could hardly contain his joy and relief any more than she could. 

She’d found Travis.


	11. Chapter 11

It took a moment to identify her, but suddenly Travis Mayweather’s world fell into focus.

It was all he could do not to gasp Hoshi’s name aloud, but he managed – with a heroic effort – to shut his mouth and maintain the stoic front that was evidently expected of him.  His heart was beating wildly in his chest, and he couldn't remember the last time he’d felt such boundless relief; not even the time when as an over-ambitious youngster he’d been tinkering with the _Horizon_ ’s cargo container couplings and one containing several thousand credits’ worth of kavarite ore had been on the verge of detaching itself just as the ship dropped out of warp.  On that occasion Mom had saved his ass, initiating an emergency cargo-securing protocol that just about held the container in place till it could be re-secured by conventional means.

For a couple of minutes he couldn't take his eyes off her, feasting on recognition of someone familiar in this world that hid such brutality beneath its veneer of beauty.  Not that recognition was easy, given that she was wearing this amazing dress that was a stunning contrast to the workaday plainness of her Starfleet uniform, not to mention a fancy hairdo to go with it and face paint that made her look somehow other-worldly.  But still, it was Hoshi alright – and to judge by the way her gaze clung to his, she was equally relieved to see him.  He noticed she was looking rather white and peaky beneath the paint, and he was suddenly even more grateful to have that ax hanging at his side.  If anyone threatened her….

Someone spoke suddenly, a ringing voice that meant to be heard and heeded.  It came from the man seated on the throne, so that Travis automatically glanced sideways to assess the danger.

The slight likeness was there in the face, even turned in profile to him as it was.  But it was hard to imagine Captain Archer wearing a look of such distant and colossal pride, even if he could be induced to wear a long white tunic completely covered in thin, overlapping discs of hammered gold, or a headdress that from the frontal view must surround his face with gold spikes, presumably representing the rays of the sun.  Even his face, arms, hands and feet were dusted with gold; he glittered with every breath.

He sat stiffly upright, his forearms resting on the arms of the throne, his fingers curled around the jade globes at the end of each.  His feet rested on what was probably a footstool, currently hidden beneath some kind of oddly-shaped piece of thin brown fabric with a big dark patch at one of its edges.

Recognition of a thing depends largely on the brain’s ability to fit it into a category.  Since Travis had never seen a flayed human skin before, it took him a few moments to assimilate what it was that he was looking at.  Once he did, however, he could hardly tear his eyes from it, though he knew that beneath its natural pigmentation his own skin had gone almost as ashen as Hoshi’s.  Bile rose sickly in his throat. 

The king – presumably this guy must be a king, surrounded by such exotic state – was still speaking, his gaze fixed on Hoshi.  Naturally Travis couldn't understand a word of it, but he could pick up slight nuances of what sounded like concern.  Nothing like what the captain would convey, of course, but it was possible to detect _something._

She answered him, her head high with all the gallant determination that made her so valuable aboard _Enterprise._ Travis felt his heart swell with pride.  At a guess she too could see what the king was using as a rug, and wasn't letting it faze her.  He didn't know what she was saying, of course, but her tone was confident enough, and the grip of the king’s fingers loosened infinitesimally as she spoke.  Plainly she was saying what he wanted to hear.

During the exchange that followed, the helmsman let his gaze stray just a little.  It took him some effort to pick out the familiar features of the ship’s armory officer beneath the dramatic black face paint on the guy standing next to Hoshi, but Trip’s face fairly leaped out from the crowd just beyond, even though it was partly hidden by a swathe of white cloth draped over his head.  Much less easy to recognize was the expression on it, which was one of barely-concealed hatred as he stared at the two people standing in front of the throne.  That put an end once and for all to any hope that the ship’s chief engineer might have been transported here too.  Whoever this guy was, and however these uncanny resemblances might be explained, he sure wasn't friendly.

At a guess, anyone with the right to stand so close to the throne was pretty important.  Which meant it wasn't a good thing for him to be watching Hoshi with such venom.  Almost without his intending it to, Travis’s hand strayed towards the handle of the ax.  In normal circumstances he was not a violent person, but it was all too clear that whoever this guy in white was, he’d have jumped at the chance to have Hoshi’s hide for _his_ rug.  And he wasn't going to get it – not if Travis had any say in the matter.

Normally, too, it would have been deeply reassuring to see Malcolm so close to her.  Malcolm was the guy you could rely on to protect any of the ship’s crew, whatever the cost.  But then Malcolm wouldn't cover his face with black paint and coat his hair with stuff that pulled it into spikes, and though the ship’s armory officer could look grim enough when circumstances demanded it, there was something about the hard face beneath the paint that made Travis shiver.  Here, too, there was no hope of support.  He and Hoshi were evidently on their own.

The conversation came to an end.  From among the courtiers another man stepped forward.  His robes, although neat and clean, were noticeable for their lack of ostentation.  He was carrying a number of rolls of parchment.  Servants scurried to set down a table to one side and a stool behind it.  Others brought in boxes that proved to contain colored inks and brushes, and the artist sat down and made his preparations, securing the largest of the pieces of parchment on to the table so it shouldn't move.

The queen rose leisurely from her throne and moved to the back of her husband’s.

With a hollow feeling in his stomach, Travis moved to stand behind her.  This was all starting to look way, _way_ too familiar.

After a moment, two servants in white carried in an ornate wooden box on legs.  They set it in front of Hoshi, bowed to the king, and fairly ran from the room.

It was obvious what was expected of her.

Travis watched, his nerves on the stretch, as Hoshi lifted the lid of the box.  The guy in the white robes stepped forward, his gaze on the box, and said something.  He sounded – not scared, exactly; wary, excited.  Like he thought something was in it that he could take advantage of, but wasn't sure yet how to.

Hoshi was now looking down into the box.  Slowly she bent to take hold of whatever it contained, and as she did so the two men now closest to her moved to stand on either side of her.  Each of them rested a hand on her shoulder, presumably in some kind of support or communication.  Blue eyes and gray fastened intently, even greedily, on the thing in her hands as she straightened up.

It was a globe of metal, with four sliders or buttons set into its otherwise perfectly smooth surface. Travis realized at once that it wasn't an artifact of this civilization.  It was made of what looked like some kind of alloy, possibly duranium, and so sophisticated in its construction that it wouldn't have looked out of place aboard _Enterprise._

Hoshi was studying the panels carefully, her face set in concentration.  She touched one, and immediately a thin lance of light shot out of the globe and fastened on her forehead.  An instant later a second one emerged from the opposite side and lifted and broadened, painting on the air a brilliant hologram that dimmed the rest of the room by comparison.

Feature for feature, it was the scene in the tomb.

There was an awed hush.  People were staring at it, too scared to move or speak.  Only the tiny sounds of moving brushes showed where the artist was capturing the scene in quick, deft movements.

Hoshi remained motionless for perhaps eight minutes.  Then as the light switched itself off abruptly and the picture vanished she seemed to sway, and the black-clad guy beside her moved swiftly to support her.  He didn't touch the globe himself, but he pressed her hands to it more firmly and helped her to lay it back in the box rather than drop it, as she might otherwise have done.  The other man took hold of her body, needlessly grasping it in a way that made Travis want to punch his lights out.

There was a long silence, broken only by the quick dashing of brushes on parchment.  Hoshi was plainly fainting, for the two men lowered her to the floor.  Everyone was watching her.  Probably only the presence of the king prevented an uproar of comment and speculation breaking out.

At a gesture from the king, the Trip-clone replaced the lid on the box.  Nobody seemed anxious to touch it, but leaving the box open was obviously a worse option; handling the close-fitting lid as though it were red-hot, he picked it up and dropped it into place.

There was no help for it.  At any moment Hoshi would be carried away for whatever form of treatment these people deemed necessary, and who knew when – or if – he’d next see her again?

Travis took a deep breath and moved forward till he was just a little in advance of the throne.

“Your Majesty,” he said, turning to face the king – and at close quarters the resemblance to Captain Archer was less and the overwhelming arrogance was far greater.  “I want to stay with Hoshi.  The – the hieth’a.  I want to look after her.”

The hazel stare was brutal in its intensity.  At a guess, standing on the top step and speaking to this guy face to face was something that _did not happen._ Or if it did, it was the sort of thing that got your hide used for a rug across his footstool.    Besides the fact that he wouldn't understand a word of English anyway.

Travis waited for the order for someone to arrest him and start the rug process.

Into the electrified silence, the queen stepped forward.  She said something to her husband.  The tone was bored, but the brown eyes on Travis’s were very sharp.

The king evidently had no wish to even seem to be acting on his queen’s advice, if that was indeed what it was.  She stepped back again, and the ensuing pause seemed to go on for an extremely long time.  At the end of it, he spoke to the Trip-clone and the Malcolm-clone.  Trip answered at length, sounding angry; Malcolm more briefly.

The raking stare returned to Travis.  After a moment, the tiniest movement of one gold-dusted index finger freed him to move to Hoshi.

_Enterprise_ ’s comm officer was still on the floor.  Although her eyes were closed she didn't seem to be quite unconscious, for she was moaning and moving her head from side to side.  His heart contracted with fear. 

He dropped to one knee beside her, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder.  “Hey.  Hoshi.  It’s Travis.  We’re gonna be okay.  We’ll get out of here.”  Nobody here spoke English; he could say what he liked.  “Hoshi, wake up!”

She didn't, but her whimpering quieted a little, as though hearing his voice soothed her.

The Malcolm-clone in black was crouching beside her, though not close enough to touch.  The gray eyes dissected Travis for a few seconds, cold and abyssal, before he gestured.

Obediently the helmsman gathered his fellow-ensign into his arms and lifted her.  She weighed practically nothing.  “We’ll be okay, Hoshi,” he whispered, as much to himself as to her.  “Now we’re together, we’ll be fine.  I won’t let anyone hurt you.  We’ll be back on _Enterprise_ before you know it.” 

She sighed, and turned her face into his shoulder.

Trip said something.  It sounded scared and spiteful.

The queen drawled a reply, sounding more bored than ever.  Whatever it was, it had the desired effect; the man in white drew back a step, pulling the cloth across his face as he bowed to her.  This might be sufficient to hide his expression from her, but Travis caught a glimpse of ugly resentment before it was hidden.

Malcolm spoke to the king, who said something back and rose. 

The whole court prostrated itself immediately.  Travis was left standing like a single palm tree on a tiny desert island in the midst of an empty ocean.  As light as Hoshi was, it would be kind of awkward if he tried to kneel while he was holding her; and besides, it must have been obvious to everybody that he simply hadn't been expecting what had happened.  “Sorry,” he said, his tone a mingling of apology and defiance. 

Across a couple of meters of charged space, hazel eyes bored into brown ones, with the threat of infinitely worse than flaying in them.

But at that moment. Hoshi stirred and moaned.  “Travis…”

The king’s gaze flicked to her.  He said something more to Malcolm, then spun on his heel and walked away.  A number of the courtiers who’d been closest to the dais rose hurriedly and followed him, and they all disappeared through a side door under one of the high windows.  It seemed that the audience was over, at least for the present.

The queen stared at Travis, her expression unreadable, and then gathered her knot of lords and went out again by another door.  Trip followed the king, though his pace suggested that he wasn't in hot pursuit.  The rest of the court rose, shook itself nervously into order, uttered a collective sigh of relief and dispersed, mostly through the double doors at the foot of the room.  Most cast awed, if not downright scared, glances at Hoshi as they passed.  No doubt the appearance of that hologram had been miraculous to them, and they were half-expecting further manifestations at any moment.

Malcolm – or whatever the guy’s name really was – waited until the room had emptied.  Then he led the way silently through yet another of the doors that opened off the immense length of it, and along a maze of corridors.  Eventually he opened a door that led to what looked like some kind of pharmacological store.  It was not large, but the shelves lining its walls were crowded with vials and jars, mostly of pottery, though here and there glass gleamed.   After a moment’s thought he selected a particular vial, from which he poured a few drops into a cup on the table.  A squat stone jar contained water, from which he ladled enough to fill the cup halfway before stirring it.

Maybe Travis’s expression was too easily read; the mystery was that it was apparently tolerated.  With a gleam of unmistakable mockery, the other man lifted the cup to his own lips, tilted it and drank a couple of mouthfuls before bringing it over to Hoshi.

The words were probably the Yb’oan for ‘have a drink of this and you’ll feel better’.  There was a note of brusque kindness in them.

She’d started coming back to herself in the last minute or two anyway, blinking dazedly up at the man carrying her.  Still, she seemed to be in no hurry to talk, which was a bit worrying; communication being Hoshi’s stock in trade, so to speak.

_It would sure be good to have Phlox here to check her over_ , thought Travis, steadying her as the cup was placed to her lips.  Maybe the stuff contained nothing harmful, but a society this primitive could have nothing like the sophisticated methods of treatment that the ship’s doctor had at his command (and used when necessary, despite his quirky fondness for alternative forms).  Who knew what that damned ball had done when it accessed her brain?  The only probability was that nobody here was going to be able to find out. 

She drank obediently.  Malcolm’s clear insistence that she should drink it all renewed Travis’s suspicions about the contents: maybe it was something that was only harmless in small doses….

Nevertheless, whatever the drink was, it seemed to work.  Hoshi spluttered, and opened her eyes fully, swallowing the last mouthful.  “Where…?”

Next moment she evidently became aware of who was holding the cup.  Her eyes cut to the black-painted face, and there was no mistaking the way her body tensed.  She was _afraid_ of this guy.

Malcolm said something in Yb’oan, and she replied.  At first she was hesitant, but then she got more confident, like she was explaining something. The sound of her speaking the language was music to Travis’s ears; finally, the two of them should be able to get a handle on the situation now – might even make their plight understood.

Next, a question.  He himself was the subject of it – that much was clear from the glance that accompanied it.  Hoshi also glanced up at him as she answered, with another perceptible hesitation.

The gray eyes searched him again, narrowly.  Then, with a faint shrug, Malcolm led the way once more to another room nearby, where he gestured to Travis to lay Hoshi down on the couch there.

She was evidently feeling a whole lot better, because as soon as he set her down she tried to stand up.  This was not a good idea, because from the way her legs buckled they weren't up to supporting her yet.  Malcolm tried to prevent her from trying a second time, and once again it was obvious that she feared him; she didn't flinch away, but the rigidity of her body under his touch seemed inappropriate to what was evidently a gesture of protectiveness, if not kindness, on his part.

It was evident that he understood her reaction quite well.  Shutters closed across his expression.  He looked at Travis, inclined his head to Hoshi and walked out of the room, throwing some observation across his shoulder as he reached the door.  His tone was neutral enough, but there was a bite beneath it.  If he’d been his lookalike on _Enterprise_ , it would have indicated hurt – not that one could imagine Lieutenant Reed ever betraying his feelings so clearly, particularly on an away mission.  Hurt or otherwise, he wasn't happy though – and this wasn't the type of guy who it was healthy to have mad at you.

No translation was needed for Hoshi’s acknowledgement.  She sat, still rigid, till the door had closed; then she threw her arms around the helmsman’s shoulders as he knelt in front of her beside the couch.

“Are you okay?” he asked in a frantic whisper, hugging her in return.  “What happened with that – that globe thing?”

“I don’t know.  I think it’s some kind of control device; there are switches on it, the panels click in different directions.  I couldn't read the lettering – it’s definitely not Yb’oan.  But the thing itself is _way_ too sophisticated for this civilization.  I think they've found something and are trying to get a handle on it because they think it belongs to their ‘gods’.”  She swallowed.  “I’m guessing that’s how we got here.  Those pieces of metal in the tomb – they must be part of the same thing somehow.  Receiver and transmitter.  The oo’oacu must have had it buried with him, built into the wall maybe, to help him to the gods in the afterlife.”

“If it doesn't belong to their civilization, maybe it was from an earlier one,” he suggested.  “Or something from a spacecraft that had to make emergency landfall here.  If none of the people on board survived, there would have been nobody to explain the machinery.  And any machine that could make people disappear – or make holograms appear – they’d just see them as magic.

“At least we know now where the panel on the tomb came from,” he added, grimacing. 

Hoshi shuddered.  “J’zakthi asked about that, why some of the people in it looked different.  I told him that’s what they look like in the spirit world.  It was all I could come up with on the spur of the moment that would make sense to him.”

He laughed at her ingenuity.  It probably wouldn't find favor with the Vulcans, playing into the credulity and superstition of a primitive people as it did, but it certainly couldn't be argued with.  And hopefully it would give those concerned something to think about.

“But they _do_ look like Trip and the rest in real life – don’t they?” she said anxiously.  “Or is this some kind of mind game?  I mean, you look like you, and presumably I look like me…”

“Yeah, they do, to me as well.”  He spoke slowly, trying to work things out.  “But maybe it’s got something to do with us seeing the resemblance in that wall panel and now we’re projecting it on to them somehow, as well as on to each other.  Everyone looks like what we’re _expecting_ them to look like.  Because we’re not–.” He paused, hating the fact that was gnawing away at his consciousness like a disease, and hating that he had to reveal something so personal, because it was a vital piece of the evidence they needed for what was real and what wasn't.  “We’re not our physical selves, the people we were back on _Enterprise_.  At least, I hope we’re not,” he added, praying that this was so; surely they couldn't have been unconscious long enough for surgery to have been performed and then healed so completely he hadn't even been aware of the loss at first?  “We’re the people who were here in this time.  You look like I expect you to look like, I look like you expect me to look like.  But there _are_ – differences.”

“‘Differences’?”  She pulled back and looked at him, and it was plain she saw more than he was comfortable with, because she took hold of his hands.

“When I woke up, I was in a harem.  There were these beautiful women, and I – well, I wondered why I was allowed in a place like that.”  He swallowed and took a deep breath, trying desperately to hide how mortified and humiliated he felt at what he had to admit.  “Then I found out.  This guy, me, well – I think I know what ‘yamyne’ means now…”  Another swallow.  “‘The eunuch’.”

It occurred to him, rather too late, that it might have been an idea to find out if Hoshi would ‘see’ his mutilation if he hadn't told her about it.  They were Starfleet officers, and they should be professional and objective; if seeing him naked would provide valuable evidence about their situation, it wouldn't normally bother him at all.  Yet the thought of her seeing the half-man he now felt himself to be was one that he shrank from viscerally.  Had he been with another male officer he would have probably felt able to expand on the nature of the surgery, but unless it was found to be necessary, he’d rather keep the details private from Hoshi.  After all, at some point – he told himself valiantly – they were going to be back aboard _Enterprise_.  And while he trusted her implicitly not to spread such a damaging and embarrassing detail abroad, the more vague he could keep the information the more comfortable he would be.

Her fingers tightened sympathetically on his hands, to show him that she understood how difficult the admission had been for him, but mercifully she kept up the professional front.  “So, why did you see the difference there when you weren't expecting to?” she asked, more as a rhetorical question than as one to which she expected him to produce an answer.  Doubtless she too wondered whether she would have seen it, but that was academic now.  "Or was it a question of we  _see_ what we expect to see, but  _feel_ what's actually there?

“They definitely _don’t_ look completely like the people we see them as,” she went on thoughtfully, obviously pursuing some other avenue of speculation.  “J’zakthi obviously saw differences, enough to be curious.”

“J’zakthi – that’s the guy we think looks like Malcolm?”

“Yes.”  Hoshi shivered.  “Travis, you – you didn't see it.  Before you came in, the oo’oacu was giving an – giving an audience to some people who owed him tribute.  They were making excuses, asking for more time to pay.  And he didn't answer.  He didn't even look at them.  He just had them killed.”

“Just like that?”  He was shocked, but her next words appalled him.

“The guy we think looks like Trip did it to two of them, his name’s Hezafer.  He killed them with an ax.  Right in front of the throne.  Like he was – killing rats or something.  And the third guy tried to run and J’zakthi knifed him.  Just like a born assassin, he didn't turn a hair.  Malcolm would never do that.”

Travis kept his thoughts on that score to himself.  He had the highest regard for the lieutenant’s integrity and honor, but sometimes wondered just how deep those particular still waters ran.  Much deeper, maybe, than anyone on _Enterprise_ suspected.

Still, this certainly explained why Hoshi had looked so sickly when he came in.  If something like that had only just happened, it was a testament to her toughness that she’d still been able to brave out the examination with the globe thing.  He said so, and some of the color came back into her face at the compliment.

“It just goes to show, though, we can’t trust these people,” he went on earnestly.  “You sort of think you should be able to, because of who they look like – to us, anyway.  We can only rely on each other.”

She nodded.  “It’s really difficult.”  Her low voice reflected her unhappiness.  “I don’t know, maybe the resemblance is confusing.  Sometimes I get the feeling I _can_ trust J’zakthi, that he’s a nice guy, and the next minute I think I shouldn't trust him as far as I could spit him.  And Hezafer, he’s just a slimeball.  As for the Oo’oacu, the King…” she shrugged expressively.  There wasn't really any need to expatiate on that topic.  “The Queen, I don’t know … I suppose she was in the harem when you were there; how was she with you?”

“Puzzled, I think, mostly.  Because I couldn't speak Yb’oan.”  He grimaced.  “I wish I did, it’d make everything so much easier.”

She patted his hand.  “I've thought of that.  I told J'zakthi you were touched by the gods and now you can only talk their language.  Which only I can translate.  We can tell the Queen as well, so nobody will expect any different.”

“Hoshi, you’re a genius!”  A broad grin of relief spread across his face.  “Now all we need is some way to get hold of that ball again and see if we can work out how to make it send us home.”  He paused.  “Thing is – if we’re here, where are the people we’re supposed to be?”

“Safer than we are,” she said somberly.  “The Yb’oa won’t kill them, I’m sure.  They’ll just keep them till they can work out what happened and how to work the exchange back again. Until then, we just have to make sure we stay alive.  And together.”


	12. Chapter 12

They remained undisturbed for the remainder of the morning, except that perhaps fifteen minutes after their arrival a servant entered bringing food for them both – simple enough fare of bread, salad and cold meat, washed down with cups of some kind of thin, spiced ale.

It was a welcome break from the feeling of being constantly under observation.  The two ensigns made the most of it, discussing various theories as to how they could have been transported here and making plans for how they were to get back again.  With no-one else in the room, they could relax, and even smile at each other.  If both of them knew that they were in grave danger and that help was thousands of years distant from them, each gallantly did their best to hide it from the other.  However distant the help was, it would come.  Sooner or later, _Enterprise_ would come.

But in the meantime, they must not act as though they were helplessly relying on that rescue to materialize.  They had to find out where the box containing the globe was stored, and get another look at it.  No doubt help _would_ come, but there was every reason to play their part in their restoration.  The globe was the clue – no doubt of it.  Therefore their best chance lay in getting hold of it.  Technology did not hold the terrors for them that it did for the people around them.  With a bit of care and caution, they should at least be able to find out a little more about it, if not discover exactly how it worked and how it could be used to send them home again.

“It would seem that once again the services of Hezafer’s personal physician will not be required.”

The voice made them both jump.

How long had the white-clad zarh been standing there, just inside the door, listening to them chatter in an incomprehensible language?  Hoshi cursed silently, knowing that they’d both gotten so carried away speculating about what might be going on aboard _Enterprise_ right now that they’d forgotten to keep their surroundings under surveillance.  Lieutenant Reed would not have been impressed.

“The gods have been kind.  The hieth’a’s recovery was remarkably swift,” Hezafer continued suavely, advancing into the room.  “Doubtless this was why they sent the zarh a prompting that he should read the sacred marks and seek the meaning of this morning’s revelation in them.”

Both of the ensigns stood up.  Travis, clearly, was unsure how he should react.  Hoshi, however, gathered her confidence.  The zarh believed she had some kind of mystical power, and this morning’s revelation had undoubtedly reinforced that illusion.  Hezafer was now trying to test his footing.

It would have been some kind of comfort – if not a very reliable one – if J’zakthi had put in an appearance; it seemed, however, that right now she would have to manage without his support.

“The hieth’a thanks the zarh for his concern,” she said, trying to infuse her voice with the right balance of respect and indifference.  “If the gods have prompted him to read the sacred marks, doubtless he should waste no time in reading them.” _And you can take your slimy hide out of here, pronto, and go find your damned marks._

“This was the zarh’s very thought,” he returned smoothly.  “Therefore the zarh would be grateful if the hieth’a would allow him to examine them – freely.”

The way he uttered the last word made her flesh crawl.  It was suddenly all too clear where the marks were to which he was referring.

They couldn't be on the front of her body.  She’d surely have noticed them when she’d been bathed that morning.  However, she remembered now that just one of the attendants had touched her back, whereas others had seemed confident enough with pretty well anywhere on her body.  There had been a reverent silence when that one woman had been busy about her duties; it hadn't seemed significant at the time, but now she recalled how the others had deferred to her, plainly ceding some kind of seniority.

There was no help for it.  At least her dress fastened up the back.  And she’d be damned if she’d let him unfasten it.

“The yamyne shall assist me,” she said coolly.  “And he shall remain with me throughout.”

Hezafer’s brows rose slightly.  “He is not …”

“He has been touched by the gods, does the zarh deny it?” Her interruption was sharp, meant to let him know he was the amateur here. 

“The ways of the gods are inscrutable,” he responded with a touch of spite.  “Very well.  The zarh’s servants will make ready.”  He clapped his hands, and several servants hurried in, carrying a kind of frame that looked like a primitive version of something you’d expect to see in Sickbay.  The central portion of it consisted of what looked like a single white ox-hide, with presumably sacred symbols burned into it.  It was immediately plain that she was expected to lie against it, held half-upright; there were hand-grips at shoulder height on each side, and gold-embroidered straps waited for her wrists.  On either side a pot was fixed in position roughly at head height.  Each was stoppered, but thin wisps of smoke already drifted from pinholes around the neck.

This did not look good.  Still, it was all too obvious that while Hezafer was expecting to derive considerably more than professional enjoyment from what he was going to do, he had no idea that she either could or would refuse to allow him to do it at all.  And if she did, that would presumably generate far greater suspicion than she and Travis could afford to right now.

Which meant that basically, she had to just ‘suck it up’.

Travis was standing beside her, his suspicion and anxiety apparent as he surveyed the frame.  In as few words as possible, she put him in the picture.  “I can’t refuse,” she added in a low voice.  “I guess this is something he’s entitled to do.  Just keep an eye on him, will you?”

“You bet,” he said, his voice as low as hers.  “If he puts a finger out of line, I’ll–”

“Be careful.  We can’t make him suspicious, we can’t make any of them suspicious.  I’ll be okay.  Really.  Now, we’d better get on with it.” 

_‘I can handle this.  I can handle this.’_ She was a professional.  This was no worse than Decon, where everyone had to wear less than maybe they were comfortable with in the presence of the opposite sex.  At least it was only her back.

It could have been worse.  Much worse.

Pinning an expression of bored tolerance on her face, she got Travis to unfasten her fabulous necklace and lay it on the back of the couch, and then she stepped to the frame and placed her hands on the grips above the embroidered straps.  Travis tied the ribbons in place, probably more loosely than he should have done; one determined wrench in the right direction and she’d be free.  Then, with hands that were reassuringly steady, he began unthreading the cord that tied the two halves of the back of her dress tightly together.  She imagined his face, grimly resolute as he performed a necessary but distasteful duty.

Hezafer should not have the pleasure of pulling the fabric open.  His hands still steady, he took hold of the stiffened aquamarine silk and dragged it wide.  She felt the movement of air against skin that was damp with perspiration, right down the length of her back.

After a moment, he stepped away.  But not far.

She heard the measured slap of Hezafer’s sandals on the marble flooring.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the zarh’s hands removing the stoppers from the jars: left, then right.  Allowed more oxygen, whatever was smoldering within flared up, and the smoke billowed out more freely.  It was heavily scented, made her eyes smart and her senses swim.  She tried not to cough.  Behind her, Hezafer was drawing it into his lungs with deep breaths.

His touch was feather-light on her skin, just beneath her right shoulder blade.  She felt her flesh trying to flinch away from it, and steadied herself.  ‘ _I can handle this.’_

One fingertip, that was all.  It ran from point to point, while the smoke wreathed around them and his voice was a cold whisper in her ears, reciting words that were probably something he believed were messages from the gods, but which were probably at least partly induced by whatever hallucinogen the smoke contained.

She wasn't immune to the effects of that herself.  The marks on the ox-hide in front of her wavered.  Dim sensations of discomfort sharpened intermittently into pain, centered on her wrists.

_“Where are you, Jonathan?”_ she muttered.

A different voice answered in her confused mind – its English accent sharp, imperative.  ‘ _As you were, Ensign.’_

She giggled.  How affronted he’d be if he could see what his alter ego looked like, with the black paint and spiky hairdo.

His voice hardened still further.  The icy edge could have incised glass.  ‘ _Find something to hold on to and don’t let go._   _Don’t let him in.  He’s dangerous – dangerous–’_

_Skin moving on skin.  Body moving on body.  A mouth fastened on hers, sucking all the air out of her lungs. No air, no air to breathe–_

_Hoshi–_

There was shouting.

She was being dragged backwards, her feet scrambling to get purchase on the floor.  Her own breathing was ragged, loud with panic; no matter how hard she gasped, she couldn't seem to draw in enough oxygen.  Her hands scraped at the empty air in front of her, and there were raw red marks on her wrists.

There was light, too much light, it stabbed at her eyes, blinding her.  She tried to cover them.

Her knees had gone weak again; they buckled, and the floor came up at her suddenly.  Travis was trying to hold her up and hold her clothes together, and the shouting was still going on.

She clung to him, wanting the light to go away.  Wanting the world to stop spinning around her.

“Can’t you guys _just shut the hell up?”_ Travis bellowed at last.

Hoshi lifted her head, squinting against the glare.  The room had no windows, and had been lit only by wax lamps on shelves, but the brightness of morning spilled through the doorway.

Hezafer was partly propped against the frame.  His face was contorted with fury, the pupils in his eyes so dilated that the rim of hazy blue was barely visible.

In front of him, J’zakthi was standing like a beast ready to pounce.  The black paint made his snarl terrifying.

“The zarh is a fool!  What would he have said to the oo’oacu if the hieth’a had suffered harm?”

The eerie resemblance to Trip made the horror even greater.  He lurched upright, his slack mouth working to get words out.  “The gods – the gods…”

“The gods?  Or the zarh’s own will!” spat J’zakthi.  “It is well known what he desires.  And how he will use even the gods to get it!”

The unearthly glare turned towards Hoshi.  “The hieth’a sates herself with the yamyne for now, but her time runs short.  Soon she must bow that lovely head of hers.  One bed or the other will receive her – and the gods will that it shall be Hezafer’s!”  A sudden wild lunge thrust the smaller man out of the way, and the blond zarh reeled towards the door.  For a moment it seemed that J’zakthi would follow him, but his first apparently instinctive move was checked, and he merely watched his enemy stagger from the room.

Hoshi rubbed her eyes and tried desperately to compose herself.  To her horror, she found she was on the brink of tears.  Mercifully, she couldn't remember much of the latter part of her ordeal, but even the drug-induced stupor hadn't spared her the realization that a fingertip touch had suddenly become a predatory caress that slid swiftly beneath the aquamarine silk.  The skin of her breast retained the sensation of his touch as though it had soiled her.

“Thanks,” said Travis, looking up at their savior.

Naturally, J’zakthi couldn't understand English, but the message was plain enough.  He looked back at the two Starfleet officers, his gaze suddenly hooded.

“The zarh Hezafer is a fool,” he said levelly, “but sometimes he speaks the truth.  Both the hieth’a and the yamyne know this.  For a while longer she may amuse herself only, but soon the choice must be made.  One bed or the other.”


	13. Chapter 13

‘Soon the choice must be made – one bed or the other’.

The words ricocheted around Travis’s head as he tried make his fellow ensign more comfortable on the couch and waited for her to calm down.

Not that he blamed her for being upset.  He was pretty damned upset himself, come to that; it was fortunate that that creepy Malcolm lookalike had come barreling into the room when he did, because by then it was apparent that what was going on with Hoshi was getting seriously out of hand.

Travis was among those on the ship who took his fitness regime very seriously.  One of his favorite pastimes when off duty was pumping iron in the gymnasium, and he had the muscles to show for it.  Nevertheless, his disposition was anything but violent; he sometimes had problems summoning up the required aggression in self-defense classes, and often ended up worsted by far less physically impressive members of the crew, much to the exasperation of the lieutenant overseeing the senior officers’ training.  If he entertained a daydream of one day dumping the aforementioned lieutenant on his ass on the mat, it was never likely to become a reality.

But the last ten minutes had uncovered a core of aggression in him whose existence he’d hardly suspected.  It had been obvious, even if Hoshi hadn't told him, that he would have to stand by and watch that creepy priest-guy putting his slimy paws all over the tattooed marks that covered her back.  But it soon became all too obvious as well that Hezafer was getting _way_ too much enjoyment out of the exploration of the beautiful, complex, interlocking designs.  Within a very few minutes, if some unlikely circumstance had placed Travis back aboard _Enterprise_ and in the midst of a self-defense training exercise, that daydream might suddenly have been a whole lot closer to being realized.  As it was, he kept his watch and his silence with an effort, though once again his right hand strayed ever closer to the hilt of the ax at his belt.

The drug in the pots – for that was undoubtedly what was being used – had spread through the room until it was all a stinging haze.  His self-control began slipping, and suddenly the haft of the weapon was in his hand, wet with sweat.  His heart was thundering, and red rage began to suffocate him.  Then came the move he’d been more than half expecting – the quick, deft slip of the hand into somewhere where surely there were no designs at all–

J’zakthi’s arrival had been more than fortuitous.  In another second the ax would have been crashing to its target, and at this distance even Travis couldn't have missed.  Ceremonial or no, the blade was amply sharp enough to split a man’s skull like a rotten log with all the strength he’d have put behind it.

He didn't know if his desperate, last-second pull of the swing had been noticed.  He thought not: all the man’s wrath had been centered on what was going on at that damned frame.  Bursting into the room like an avenging angel from the Pit, J’zakthi had flown across it and fairly dragged Hezafer off his victim, landing several backhanded blows across his face as he did so – presumably in the effort to recall him to the land of the living.

Clean air from the corridor outside had brought oxygen with it.  They’d all gasped it in.  Hoshi, meanwhile, had sagged briefly in her bonds before starting to thrash desperately, clearly too overwrought to turn her hands in the way that would have freed her.  Dropping the ax, he’d rushed to support her and get her free; he was horrified by the way she fairly collapsed into his arms, her sturdy self-control shattered.

At least now they were alone again, she seemed to be coming back to herself.  The frame and its malignant pots had been removed, and the opening of several doors ensured a flow-through of air to carry out what remained of the smoke.  J’zakthi had departed again once Hoshi showed signs of recovery, though he’d said that ‘measures would be taken’ to ensure she was not placed in danger again.

_Except danger from you,_ Travis thought sourly as he fetched her a glass of the thin ale – there was still a little left in the jug on the table.  Even though he couldn't speak the language, it had been clear even to him that the guy’s reaction to the assault hadn't been entirely supportive of the victim; and Hoshi’s jerky translation of the zarh’s words as soon as they were alone had confirmed his suspicions.  _One bed or the other_ , indeed.  Like she was some damn possession, to be awarded as a prize to the winner!

“Hey.  It’ll be okay.  We’ll find a way out of this,” he said soothingly, stroking the braids in which her hair was confined.  Suddenly, rebelliously, he took hold of the nearest, tugged off the securing ribbon at the bottom of it and began to pull loose the hair.  With a choke of tearful laughter she began doing the same.  Soon the floor was a mess of glittering strings of beads.  Jeweled ornaments which had been additions to her costume sailed across the room like they were cheap trinkets won at a fair.

“And I’m not wearing _this_ thing again–” 

Politely he averted his gaze while she struggled out of the aquamarine silk.  The sound of ripping indicated that it was being drastically redesigned, and when he looked back again she had pieces of it wrapped around her top and bottom half, each tied firmly in a knot.  She probably didn't realize she looked incongruously sexy, with her hair falling askew all over her shoulders the way it was, but it was obvious that now her fright was giving way to rage.  It was probably just as well that the ax was out of reach, for the chances were that she’d split someone in half first and ask questions later.

In a hissing whisper she filled him in on the rest of what had been said.

Both of the zarhs had specifically said that some kind of a critical point in her role would soon be reached.  Everything depended, really, on their definition of ‘soon’.  It was unlikely to be measured in months; possibly it was in weeks, but it might very well be in days.  For how many of those days could the two interlopers keep up this dangerous game without falling foul of some trap or other whose existence they might not even suspect till it was too late?  And if they succeeded, and that mysterious ‘tipping point’ was reached – what would it involve, and what would be their chances of evading a fate that both men clearly regarded as inevitable?

“I’m not waiting to end up in ‘one bed or the other’,” spat Hoshi.  “We've got to make our move.  We daren’t wait.”

“I agree, but it may still take a little time.”  He held up a hand, forestalling her protest.  “We have to find our way around here; we don’t even know where the controller’s stored when it’s not in use – or even where we are in relation to the machine itself.  It’s on the plateau in _our_ time, but we don’t know where it is _now._   And those guys are going to be watching us like hawks.  We’ll have to be careful not to make them suspicious – or give that Hezafer a chance to get hold of you alone.”

“No.”  She shuddered. 

Best not to give her time to dwell too much on that particular prospect.  “Really and truly, we could do with getting someone on our side,” he went on thoughtfully.

Hoshi scowled at him.  “Who the heck do you suggest we could trust?  The King?”

“No… the Queen.”

She’d been angrily twisting scraps of silk between her fingers as though planning to strangle somebody with them, but at this, her hands fell still.  “Are you _serious?_ ”

“Well … I’m putting the idea on the table, that’s all.”  He leaned forward, the hitherto nebulous idea growing firmer in his mind.  “She must believe in all this ‘gods’ stuff, I suppose, so the last thing she’ll want is someone who  _isn't_ a believer interfering – doing all the things they regard as sacred.  She’ll want the real thing back.  If we can convince her we’re telling the truth.”

“ _If,_ ” Hoshi said dryly. “And considering you don’t speak a word of Yb’oan, and therefore at a guess you and she didn't understand a word each other said,  I’d be interested to know why you think she’d be likely to believe it if we told her.”

During their talk, he’d told her about the Queen, and the pretty ladies who didn't wear much by way of clothes; naturally she’d teased him a little about that part, but not as much as she’d ordinarily have done.  Probably because that was all mixed up with finding out what he _had_ found out about the body he was currently occupying, and she knew what an uncomfortable subject that was for him right now.

There was no doubt about it, she did have a point.  There was no concrete reason why he should think the Queen would even listen to them, let alone believe them.  Given the current level of technology in this civilization – basically zero, by the standards of their own time – a story of a ‘time travel machine’ would rank right up there with fairy stories.

Her resemblance to T’Pol – however real or imaginary – wasn't particularly encouraging on that front either.  If there was anyone less receptive to fairy stories than _Enterprise_ ’s resident Vulcan, it was hard to imagine. And if she heard them out and decided to spill the beans to the King, their plight would be desperate.  Maybe Hoshi’s undoubted ability to summon up ‘magic’ from the controller might be enough to save them; there was little doubt that it would still be powerful leverage.  To be sure, Travis had no such powers, but she could threaten to withhold her supernatural services if he was harmed.  It _ought_ to be enough…

But if it wasn't?


	14. Chapter 14

“I've had enough of waitin’,” said Trip grimly.

Across the cabin from him, Malcolm nodded.

Three days had come and gone, with no word from the Yb’oa.  They had silently listened in while Captain Archer had made the last of many fruitless calls to the government.  This one had gone like all the others: the planetary council was sure that everything would be well and that the missing officers would be recovered, safe and sound.  As for what steps were being taken to ensure that recovery, they were sure the Starfleet visitors would understand … it was a matter of internal security.

The Starfleet visitors understood all too well.  The Yb’oa had all the time in the world; after all, the tombs weren't going anywhere.  Theirs, on the other hand, was rapidly running out.

Doubtless the council did feel some compunction regarding the unknown fate of the two luckless ensigns – every conversation had been littered with apologies and regrets – but it was plain that they felt little eagerness to endanger any of their own people, and were even a little hurt by the captain’s pressing insistence that _somebody_ should be doing _something_.  There were thirteen other tombs to explore, which they would examine in due course with considerably greater caution than the first; but as for what had happened in the first, well … one of the officials had very nearly shrugged: what had happened to the ensigns was unfortunate, but surely Captain Archer would not wish it to happen to anyone else?

Jon was in a miserable position.  He could hardly claim that he didn't care if it happened to anyone else – he emphatically didn't want it to, unless that was a necessary step in getting his officers back safely.  Starfleet was leaning hard on him not to offend the government, but wouldn't allow him additional time to hold the ship in orbit hoping for developments in case even that was construed as offensive.  The procedures laid down in regulations for the disappearance of crewmembers must be observed.  One week, Earth Standard time.  Then the mission must be resumed, and the missing officers’ files marked MIA.

“It’s too early to go yet,” said Malcolm tightly.  “Two hours after the film ends, that’s our time.  Everyone on alpha shift should be locked down by then.  The gamma shift won’t want to disturb the captain at that time of the night, even if they suspect anything – which I’ll make sure they won’t.”

“They won’t even notice.  I've rigged a delay mechanism on the transporter, so’s we don’t have to get anyone into trouble for helpin’ us.  And I can fix it so the signal won’t show up on the Bridge.”  He cocked an eye.  “You sure you’re okay with usin’ that thing?”

“Comfortable, no.  Resigned, yes.”  The lieutenant bent to his bunk, where an anonymous rucksack was already sitting packed, with his hot-climate uniform laid out beside it.  “I appear to have survived the process intact on previous occasions, so I’ll chance it.  Especially in view of the fact that the chances of no-one noticing us borrowing a shuttlepod without permission would seem rather remote.”

“I’ll bet there’s a standin’ order for the cap’n to be notified if there’s a shuttle launch.”  Trip came into the room, so that the door closed behind him; it wouldn't do for anyone in the corridor to overhear this particular conversation, though it had been empty when he’d keyed the chime.  “T’Pol’s been watchin’ me like a damned hawk the past couple’a days.”

Reed’s trademark half-smile flitted across his face.  “You’re not exactly known for your patience.”

“Plannin’ on doin’ some shootin’?”  The change of position had brought the butt of a phase pistol into view, tucked into the rucksack so it would be the work of a second to snatch it out.

“I’m _prepared_ rather than _planning_ , Commandah.”  The English accent had gotten pronounced, every consonant chiseled, but the aspirated end of the honorific was playful, an accepted part of the banter between them. 

“I take it you haven’t been pinnin’ much hope on the cap’n’s diplomacy then, _Loo-tenant._ ”  He waited for the irked gleam in response, and grinned when he got it.

“I’m not much of a believer in hope.”  Malcolm briskly zipped up the bag.  “Now, I suggest we spend the evening as we normally would.  If either or both of us is under surveillance, the last thing we want to do is give anyone food for suspicion.  What did you say was scheduled for Movie Night?”

Trip’s grin widened.  “It’s a classic.  You’ll love it.”

A long-suffering sigh.  “Trip, you say every damned film’s a classic.  Most of the time they’re a load of bunk.  So what is it I’ll be giving a wide berth to this evening?”

“Hey!”  He jutted an offended lip.  “I chose this one _specially_ for you.  It’s ‘Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom’.”

“Oh. My. God.”

=/\= 

His alarm went off, but it was unnecessary; the adrenaline was pumping around his body, and had made it impossible to sleep – and almost as impossible to settle down to anything to pass the last two hours.  Even the latest downloads of engineering schematics from the R&D people at Jupiter Station had hardly been enchanting enough to hold his interest.

The sound of his cabin door opening sounded twice as loud as usual.  The corridor was darkened and deserted.

He was wearing sneakers rather than regulation boots.  Even so, his footfalls seemed to echo in the dim metal spaces as he made his way to the transporter alcove.

 _Guess that means I’m not a natural-born Covert Ops specialist_ , he thought to himself ruefully.

Malcolm, on the other hand, detached himself from the shadows as though he’d been a part of them.  Maybe it was some trick of the poor light that made his face look older and colder, his mouth set in a grim line.

Trip put a hand on his arm as he moved purposefully towards the control console.  “Before we go any further – this could be the end of our careers.  _If_ we survive it.  Let’s be clear on that.”

The gray eyes were shuttered, revealing nothing.  “I believe we already discussed that possibility.”

“I know.  I just want to make sure you’re not … not havin’ second thoughts about it.”

“Second, third, fourth … as many as you like.  But however many I've had, it won’t change the fact that my plain duty is to attempt a rescue.  I’m responsible for the safety of the crew of this ship, Commander. I swore an oath long ago that no other person under my protection would die if I had the chance to save them – no matter what the cost.”

His gaze was stony.  He was set on his course now, and nothing would shift him: not disgrace, not dismissal, not anything short of death.

Well, it was kind of weird finding out something like that ‘taking an oath’ thing, but then again it fitted the man’s personality.  He took his duty so seriously, so _personally_ , that Trip could only wonder that the possibility had never occurred to him before.

The unexpected revelation suggested that someone whom Malcolm regarded as being under his protection _had_ died, sometime in the past – a death for which he’d held himself responsible.  That figured.  And at a guess, he certainly wouldn't want that particular episode opened up in a discussion right now, though his superior officer made a note to bring up the subject at a later date, assuming that both of them got through this present piece of craziness in one piece.  Knowing the Brit as he did, it was all too likely that he was carrying a burden of guilt he didn't deserve to shoulder.  Not that he’d thank anyone for interfering, not even for attempting to relieve him of it; but that had never stopped Trip in the past, and he wasn't about to let it stop him on this occasion.

Still, it certainly emphasized the fact that there was little point in trying to reason him out of the present rescue mission.  Fruitless it might well be, suicidal it could easily be, and fatal for their careers it _certainly_ would be if it was discovered; still, that wasn't going to stop them.  Trip squared his shoulders briefly before bending to begin entering a somewhat unorthodox series of codes into the control panel.

“I was not aware that the captain had authorized an away team to visit the planet.”  A cool voice spoke from the shadowy corridor behind them.

 _Damnation!_ What was the woman doing up and about at this hour?

Trip glared at her.  She hadn't any business even being awake, still less prowling  around the corridors; and even less than either of those, knowing exactly what her two junior officers had been at considerable pains to avoid her getting so much as a sniff of.

“The captain has not authorized it.”  Reed cut the consonants off as if slicing them with a knife.  Far from retreating instantly into ramrod formality, as you’d have expected, he was poised on the balls of his feet – almost, as if such a thing were possible, as though about to launch an attack.

Oddly enough, T’Pol ignored his odd posture, which she couldn't fail to have noticed.  “You are aware of the seriousness of your proposed conduct.  I assume that you are planning to stage an attempted rescue of Ensign Sato and Ensign Mayweather – in defiance of the Yb’oan government’s explicit refusal to permit such a thing, and Starfleet’s equally explicit orders to Captain Archer that we should refrain from giving the Yb’oa any grounds for offense.”

“Guess that about sums it up.”  The chief engineer folded his arms defiantly.  “So call Security and get us thrown in the Brig. ‘Cause that’s the only way you’re gonna stop us.”

The Vulcan directed a long, strangely summing look at Malcolm.  “The authorities will undoubtedly have security measures in place at Boa’an’a. Doubtless you observed them when we visited."

Now that was a weird thing to say.  Superficially, the security officer with the landing party would be expected to note any potential dangers, but …

Reed’s posture had relaxed slightly, but his gaze hadn't.  It was still locked with T’Pol’s, and Trip had the absurd impression that a conversation was going on that he couldn't hear.

This irritated him mightily, for reasons he preferred not to look into too closely – not right now, at any rate.

“Then you will require assistance to use the transporter mechanism if you intend to travel together,” T’Pol said coolly.  “I apprehend that you had intended to go separately, but I am sure Lieutenant Reed will agree with me that it would be safer for both of you to arrive at the same time.”

Trip fairly gaped at her.  Malcolm wasn't quite gaping, but he didn't look particularly happy. 

The ship’s XO stepped briskly to the transporter console.  “I would accompany you, but for the fact that it would add considerably to the captain’s _embarrassment_ should all three of his senior officers be arrested for violating the orders not only of Starfleet but also of an independent sovereign world’s lawful and elected government.”  The steely note in her voice (almost as steely as her gaze had suddenly become) said that she was likely to be _really, really pissed off_ if even two of Captain Archer’s senior officers were indeed found to have committed such treasonous activities; and that if they were wise, they’d better do their damnedest not to find out just how unpleasant a really, really pissed-off Vulcan could be.

Still, it was undoubtedly safer than his planned delaying program would be.  Not waiting for the inevitable rider that the longer the two of them waited the more likely it was that someone would walk along the corridor and see them, Trip punched in the code that canceled the changes he’d made and hopped up onto the transporter platform.  Malcolm was immediately behind him.

“I owe you one, T’Pol,” he said, as the familiar, disconcerting sensation of the ‘disassembling’ part of the process prickled through his body.

“I know,” was the last thing he heard.

Or almost the last.  The very last was breathed in an English accent.  “Damn and blast…”


	15. Chapter 15

They materialized exactly where they’d planned to: in a gully somewhat to the north of the plateau.

It was likely that with _Enterprise_ still in orbit, the Yb’oa would have scanners alert for any unusual electronic activity on the plateau itself.  Therefore, although the trek from the beam-in site would cause them some delay, it was only logical.

It was night-time in the desert.  Trip hated hot dry climates with a passion. He always had, and his brush with death that time when he and Jon had been the guest of what proved to be a terrorist leader under attack from his world’s government certainly hadn't made him think better of them.  He cast a distrustful look around as he and Malcolm sank silently into the lee of a nearby rock formation.  It being night-time, the temperature was on the cool side of comfortable, but although he was fine with the temperature he knew that the departure of the hostile hot sun was the signal for the environment’s inhabitants to come out of hiding.  And on Earth, most of the desert’s inhabitants – apart from such delights as snakes – were bugs.

He’d almost rather have the snakes.

Still, the dry coarse sand in the rock’s shadow appeared to be free (at least temporarily) of both snakes and bugs.  He was careful not to let his fingers stray too near dark crevices where things like scorpions might take up residence.

Keeping the scanner carefully sheltered so that no gleam of light from its display screen might be visible, he activated it briefly.  It showed up a scatter of small biosigns nearby that were presumably some kind of native creatures, about the size of prairie dogs.  They weren't in the direction in which he and Malcolm intended to travel, however, so their presence could be disregarded.  Had things been different, they might have presented a threat – presumably they’d have some kind of alarm call if they were disturbed.  And in the silence, which was absolute, any such sound would carry a considerable distance.  Particularly to the two people who were stationed up by the tomb.

Keeping his voice to the tiniest whisper, and using coded gestures where possible, Trip passed on the information to Malcolm.  The lieutenant nodded briefly, raising his head to study the position of the planet’s moon.  It was close to setting, but two of the other worlds were close enough for their reflected light to count for something, even though they were only like two bright coins suspended in the starry sky.

Silently the Brit lifted a handful of sand and let it trickle over his hair – the most noticeable part of him in that expanse of bleached rock and sand.  Then he began the crawl up the gully, moving with an enviable stealth that Trip tried hard to emulate.  Considering that Malcolm’s normal posture was so rigid, his movements now were almost creepily fluid.

Thanking the gods of genetics that his fair hair blended in with the terrain, and needed no application of sand (enough of the damned stuff was already insinuating its way into his uniform without additional help), Trip wormed his way after the man he was already referring to in his mind as ‘Indiana Reed’.  They’d already agreed that it was safer for Malcolm to take point.  An application of grease had ensured that the surface of the phase pistols both of them were wearing reflected no light, and there were no signs that anyone up on the plateau had noticed anything amiss.

As they finally reached the last few meters below the rim of the level ground, their pace slowed still further.  They paused between every movement.  It felt as though half an hour passed before Malcolm finally eased his head up over the ledge opposite the entrance, timing the movement precisely for the moment when the guard on this side had turned the corner of the structure that would hide him from view.

They’d timed the patrol from the ship as part of their preparations.  The soldiers appeared awake enough, but seemed to have little expectation of anything actually happening.  They strolled around, watching the landscape negligently, and occasionally stopped to exchange a few words.

Unless anything happened to distract the guards, or they changed their routine for some unknown reason, Malcolm had about a minute and a half to break into the tomb, without making a sound or leaving any evidence that would alert the guards that he’d done so.

His heart in his mouth, Trip watched the slight figure of his junior officer flit across the open ground of the plateau. 

The tomb had originally been sealed by a huge block of stone, which had been removed to allow access when the site was discovered.  Now it was sealed by some form of energy field generated by devices anchored around the doorway.  This had been made visible, presumably to deter prospective intruders; what it would feel like if you touched it was questionable.  At a guess, the Yb’oa wouldn't want to kill anyone, but it would probably be painful enough to be a strong deterrent.  And certainly, any interruption in it would set off an alarm.

Taking the guards out would be child’s play, but taking them out without anyone – including them – ever being the wiser was a completely different matter.  Had the two officers been able to recruit Phlox’s help maybe some sneaky memory manipulation could have been performed, but as things stood they were on their own.

The seconds ticked past.  Malcolm had reached the entrance and was busy at one of the devices.  Anxiously, Trip checked his chronometer.  ‘ _Make it fast, Indy_ ,’ he fumed silently.

More seconds passed.  In desperation he grasped his phase pistol and lifted it, flipping off the safety catch.  When the guard came back around the corner, the would-be intruder would be in plain view.  A few hazy clouds had drifted up to obscure part of the sky, which was one factor on their side, but the side of the tomb was as plain and straight as a die all along its length, right up to where the devices broke the clean line of it.  Even in the dimmer light, the crouching shape of the working man would be painfully obvious.

Suddenly the green glimmer across the rectangular black hole of the entrance flashed off.  In an instant, Malcolm flung himself through the doorway.  Almost in the same second, the energy field flashed on again and the guard walked around the corner.

No alarm sounded.  Trip subsided, hoping that his heartbeat wasn't as audible externally as it was in his ears, where it sounded like somebody beating hell out of an empty oil-drum with a lump-hammer.

The guard strolled along the accustomed circuit, hardly glancing at the guarded entrance.  He paused at the far end of his path, seeming to survey the view, and then turned and began the long walk back.  He was plainly in no hurry.  His rifle was still slung across his back; the night was still and peaceful, and he’d have been here some hours already.  Why should he anticipate any trouble?

He passed the entrance again without a second glance and went on his way.

The instant he was around the corner again, Trip vaulted onto the plateau and scooted over to the tomb’s entrance.  The energy field still shimmered there.

“Bottom right hand side.  Hit the button,” came a hiss from the darkness within.  “You’ll have two seconds.”

The piggybacked device was half-buried in the sand, hard to spot unless you were looking for it.  He found the button by touch; naturally it couldn't be illuminated.

On command, the field vanished.  Trip threw himself through the gap, not wanting to take a chance of being caught when it switched on again.

Malcolm’s hands steadied him.  Of course, they couldn't use torches, even in here – there was no saying how far reflected light would carry; but they’d both studied the layout of the tomb carefully, and had a good idea of where the turns and rooms were.  Even working in total darkness, it wouldn't take them long to find the central chamber.  Once there, they had a shielded infrared lamp they could focus on the wall where the metal lumps were to be found, and goggles to enable them to see by it.

The floor was smooth and even.  It was not hard to walk silently and swiftly, finding their way by brushing their fingertips lightly along the walls.  They’d both donned sterile plastic gloves to avoid any risk of accidentally transferring bacteria-laden acid from their skin to the frescoes; despite the government’s evident fear that they were vandals, both of them respected ancient artifacts and had no wish to do any harm by their unauthorized incursion.

“Kind’a creepy,” Trip breathed after a short while, when the downward tilt of the floor indicated that they were almost at the central chamber.

“You believe in ghosts?” the disembodied English voice said softly beside him, on a note of amusement.  “You certainly chose the wrong mission, coming here.”

“Well, I guess you don’t, then,” Trip replied, a little snippily.  “Is there anything that our Super Hero Reed _is_ worried about, by any chance?”

The silence thickened briefly.  “I've never claimed to be a hero, Trip.”  He could tell by the tone that his companion was a little startled and – worse – hurt.  “And yes; I have my fears like everyone else.”

“You’d never know about it.”  He went on, trying to make amends, “You’re one of the toughest guys I know.”

A faint wry grunt had, nevertheless, a note of pleasure in it.  Evidently Malcolm had decided to accept the peace offering.  “Should be just a couple more yards now,” the Brit murmured, as they passed the last of the side chambers.

Trip made a mental note to ask his friend why he still used the archaic _yards_ as an estimate of distance, but almost immediately the explanation presented itself: its association with the rigging of sailing ships would doubtless earn it a hallowed place in the vocabulary of the Reed household.  And even nowadays the British stubbornly clung on to many of their traditions – spelling forms, for instance.  He and Malcolm had often bickered about the senselessness of retaining the silent _U_ in such words as ‘color’ and ‘honor’, mostly because there weren't many easier ways to get the well-armored lieutenant all riled up and defensive when a little teasing was on the cards.

The mental diversion into the stubbornness of the English – and one Englishman in particular – had occupied him enough to drive out less agreeable thoughts.  These returned in full force, however, when the wall ended and some unquantifiable change in the dense black silence around them announced that they’d arrived in the burial chamber itself.

The Yb’oan reverence for the dead king had meant that the sarcophagus in the center of the room had to be treated essentially as though it were invisible.  It was of black marble, thinly veined, and polished to a mirror sheen.  More hieroglyphs were chiseled into a band that was chased around it, about midway up the side.  It was sealed by a block of reddish stone that must weigh several tons; evidently those who had laid the king to his eternal rest were determined he wasn't going to get up in the night and walk around to stretch his legs.

They’d already laid down their plans, so no words were necessary as they moved to the corner on their right (so that no accidental sound would carry readily along the tunnel) and laid down the rucksacks they’d brought. 

The click of the lamp switching on was music to Trip’s ears.  Hastily he donned the infrared goggles, and the mute horror of intrusion drew back a little as a section of the wall sprang into view.  Even with goggles, the light was not very bright – they’d kept it to the lowest setting, minimizing any radiation from it that sensors might detect – but it was enough to allow them to operate.

Malcolm swung the lamp to focus on the sarcophagus.  He seemed particularly interested in the lid, and as he looked at it more closely he gave a sigh of mingled relief and exasperation.  “It’ll do – just about, I think.”

“What’ll do?” asked Trip.

Reed gestured at the lip of the lid.  It had been cut to overlap slightly on each side, chiefly (it seemed) to accommodate a layer of inlaid precious stones that formed more hieroglyphs.  “The anti-grav clamps should just about fit under the edges if I’m careful.”

“You’re not going _tomb-robbing?”_ The appalled whisper seemed to be echoed by the watching figures on the walls, staring in the eternal dark.

Malcolm’s face in the upward-cast red light was carved in flint.  His eyes glittered from dark caverns in it.  “Is there any particular reason why I shouldn't look everywhere for answers?”

“Well…”  He was aware it sounded feeble, and there was no reply from the Brit as he swung the lamp away.  A couple of seconds later, its crimson glow glanced off the metal lumps in the offending wall.  Malcolm set it down on the floor, bracing it so that it illuminated them steadily, and squatted down beside it as though hoping to stare it into submission.

Mustering his thought processes back into order, Trip came to squat beside him, pulling the scanner from his rucksack.  Briefly he wondered whether playing the particular movie he had the night before had been such a brilliant idea after all: Malcolm appeared to have taken some concepts of it far too closely to heart.  The way he was going, it wouldn't be so much of a surprise if he presently donned an old felt hat and a bull-whip.

“Sure wish we could’a brought this thing’s big brother,” he muttered, thumbing the settings.  The science department on board _Enterprise_ had far more sophisticated equipment, capable of building up a detailed picture of anything that was not immediately accessible to view.  “But at least this’ll give us an idea…”

It certainly did.  Moments later, he and Malcolm were staring at a data-stream that suggested something large and metallic was indeed concealed behind that fresco.  Why it should be there was a mystery, but now there was at least some explanation for the disappearance of their two officers.  It hadn't been some freak accident, nor a paranormal event: it had been _intended_.

“Some kind of anti-intrusion device, perhaps.”  His companion’s voice was low and troubled.

“I doubt it.  If that was it, it’d make more sense to have it in the entrance.  Why let people get this far, if you can stop ‘em dead as soon as they get in?”  He wished he’d used a different expression, one that didn't include the word _dead_ ; it sounded far too much like a prophecy.

He changed the settings, bringing the scanner as close as he dared to the extruding lumps of metal.  “These are really sophisticated.  They've got all sorts of circuits inside, connectors, sensors…”

“Anything that would suggest a capacity for delivering a high energy charge?”  The question was asked utterly without inflection.

That was the one thing he’d been dreading to see, but the structures the data was suggesting didn't support it. “I can’t say for certain, but I don’t think so.”

The long breath of relief was so controlled he could hardly hear it, even in that silence.  When the exhalation was finished, “Let’s have a look at the sarcophagus.”  A quick glance.  “Look, I’m not a desecrator of graves for fun.  If there’s nothing in there of course I won’t touch it.  But we have to rule it out.”

Trip sighed. It made sense, of course.  And it was kind of ironic, after his thoughts about Malcolm being such a traditionalist, for _him_ to be the one now balking at disturbing a burial site – even with the best of intentions.

Reluctantly, he rose and walked the couple of paces to the side of the sarcophagus.  Its black marble was hostile, malevolent, outraged by the threat of invasion.  He wondered whether Malcolm felt that too, or whether he was just being stupidly creeped-out by the atmosphere.  ‘ _Guess I've included too many horror ‘classics’ in Movie Night_ ,’ he thought grimly.

Fortunately, his thumbs were deft enough on the recalibration controls, and any sentience the marble might possess did not noticeably affect the sensors. 

He thought afterwards that it was pretty damned inevitable that there _would_ be something inside; he just hadn't wanted to admit it.  Something spherical, that gave back the same anomalous signature as the machinery behind the wall.

“Guess we have a use for the anti-gravs,” he muttered.  “But just let’s…”

Reed shot him a look.  “I’ll be as careful as I can.  Trust me.”

Words were pretty redundant as the two of them unpacked the anti-gravs from Malcolm’s rucksack.  The clamps were designed to fit around a range of sizes, but the narrowness of the overlap offered little area for them to grip.  The consequences if any of them failed were almost unimaginable;  the lid would fall with a noise like a cannon-shot, almost certainly damaging the marble underneath it – if the impact didn't break either or both of them.

Entering the tomb without permission was certainly a serious crime by Yb’oan standards.  How they might view wreaking serious damage on an occupied sarcophagus as well, given their reverence for the dead…

“I think it’s as good as it’s going to get.”  The Brit secured the last in place.  “If I can get inside, I can maybe find some place to secure the transmitter itself.  Then we won’t have to rely solely on the clamps."

Okay.  Now this was going _way_ too far.  Opening the damned sarcophagus was one thing, but actually getting _into_ the damned thing – climbing all over a powdery mummy, which might somehow _react…._

“I won’t ask you to come too.”  There was suddenly a naughty grin behind the statement.  “I’m sure you can do without starring in the Hammer classic ‘Trip Tucker Meets The Mummy’.”

Trip wagged the scanner at him.  “If you find cold hands crawlin’ all over you in your bunk tonight, Loo-tenant, don’t bother callin’ me to complain about it.”

The muttered reply seemed to be along the lines of ‘Chance would be a fine thing’, but Malcolm was cautiously engaging the anti-grav controls, and both of them held their breath as the low hum of the transmitter filled the chamber.  On board ship, of course, it had seemed practically soundless, but that was set against the permanent background noises of a starship.  Here, in this deathly hush, it was appallingly loud.

No footsteps sounded from outside, however; no angry hails came down the passageway.  And after five minutes had passed without any sign that their activities had been noted, Malcolm began gradually turning up the gain on the transmitter. 

Millimeter by millimeter, the lid rose.

Trip half expected some awful odor of decay to roll from within like a noxious cloud, but there was nothing; only the darkness waited, charged with silent fury.

“I think that’s far enough,” breathed his companion.  “Time to check it out.”

Not for the first time, Trip wondered what kind of metal the lieutenant was made of that would allow him to just shove his head into a newly-opened grave as blithely as though he was checking the chiller cabinet to see what Chef had put out for lunch.

Suppose – by whatever agency – one of the grav-clamps failed when he was halfway in…

Or, even worse, if he got _all the way_ in, and they _all_ failed…

It would have been nice to say something encouraging, but he knew that if he tried his voice would come out all quavery, so he said nothing, just watched as Malcolm set down the transmitter and picked up the lamp.  The shadows veered wildly as he turned it, and the fine hairs on the back of Trip’s neck were standing up like the quills of a scared porcupine, but he still couldn't find anything reassuring or even useful to say as he watched his junior officer carefully insinuate his head and shoulders into the space beneath a slab of stone that would crush him like a cockroach if even one of those precariously secured clamps slipped off.

He didn't breathe again until Malcolm was safely out again, a little dusty but undamaged.

“We’re in luck,” he said in a low voice, setting down the lamp.  “There’s an inner coffin as well, that’s must be where His Nibs is.  And the sphere’s set into it.  I’ll probably be able to get it loose without damaging anything if I can get in there and see how it’s secured.  As soon as I can get it free I’ll bring it out – I’d as lief not try meddling with it while I’m still in there.”

“Is there enough room?”

“Oh, yes.  No problem there.  God bless the Ancient Yb’oa, there’s enough room to hold a party if you were a bit choosy about the guests.”  Reed’s reply was cheerfully irreverent, but probably that was just his way of coping.  You’d have to be pretty damned hard-boiled not to feel anything _at all_ in such a situation.  “And just to stop you worrying, there’s just the place to sit the transmitter as well.”

Evidently feeling that there was no reason to delay, he plucked one or two things from his pack and slithered back into the sarcophagus, this time hauling all of himself into it and disappearing momentarily from view.

“Yeah, like you weren't worried either, Indy,” Trip muttered, as he passed the transmitter in to him – there was just enough space to squeeze it through.  A soft chuckle answered him, but then there was no sound other than those of a body arranging itself and the anti-grav device in quarters that had to be somewhat cramped, despite his humor of a few moments ago.

“Now, you bugger, let’s see how you’re holding on to this thing,” came a whisper from within.  The underside of the lid reflected the dim glow of a small flashlight; Trip retreated briefly to the doorway into the passage, but at this angle none of the light was visible.  Still everything outside was quiet.  They’d gotten away with it so far.

But there was still _plenty_ of time for things to go wrong.


	16. Chapter 16

Well, getting where they wanted to go wasn't going to be a problem.

There were now three guards posted outside the room.  These appeared less surprised than downright terrified when Hoshi spoke to them, but clearly, disobeying her orders wasn't an option.

“Th– the hieth’a is obeyed without question,” one stammered, and two of them turned to lead the way to the Queen’s rooms.  The third slid away in the opposite direction, and there was little doubt as to where he was headed.  All three of them bore tattooed black slashes across their chests.

“Better make this quick when we get there.  I've got a feeling we may be interrupted,” Travis said in a low voice.

“Depends really – on who holds the power in this civilization.  Sacred or secular.”  Hoshi felt her fists clench.  How dared that slimy toad Hezafer take advantage of her – how _dared_ he?  She wouldn't be able to meet him now without wanting to slap him into the day after tomorrow.  And she could imagine the sly, gloating look that would be in his eye at their next encounter, as the both of them remembered what he’d done.

_One bed or the other’s_ … and if their luck ran out, and it was his, how could she possibly endure it? 

_‘I’d rather throw myself off a balcony first.’_ But she didn't want to die, she wanted to go home to _Enterprise_ , to her home and family and her own time and her own civilization.  And above all, she wanted to make that slimy bastard pay for the feeling of his hand on her flesh.

There were guards outside the Queen’s Rooms of course, but these made no attempt to deny entry to persons of the hieth’a’s standing.  Travis, naturally, had the entrée on his own account.

It was immediately obvious that the helmsman hadn't exaggerated either the beauty of the ladies closeted within, or the scarcity of their clothing.  The opening of the door drew their attention immediately, most pinning hopeful smiles on their faces – smiles that certainly didn't slip when they saw Travis.

Hoshi wasn't a prude, but she found it somewhat daunting to be suddenly in the company of so many gorgeous and singularly under-clad women.  Fortunately, as soon as these realized who she was most of them fled like a shoal of frightened goldfish, diving through doors or out into the gardens; it seemed that not even the appeal of her companion was sufficient to tempt them to linger.

It was kind of scary in itself to find out once again just how intimidating she was.  She didn't allow that to show in her face, though.  As far as these people were concerned, she knew how scary she was and didn't give a damn.

However, a couple of what appeared to be the more senior of them held their ground.  Their faces were wary, but their body language ceded her a degree of respect, if not outright fear.

She came to a halt just in front of them.  “The hieth’a would speak with the Queen,” she said directly, gambling that someone with the sort of power she was supposed to have wouldn't go in for ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.

“The Queen will be informed,” replied one, with just the suggestion of gritted teeth.

“At once!” snapped Hoshi.  “And the hieth’a would speak with her _alone!_ ”

For a moment she wondered if she’d pushed her luck too far, for the expressions opposite her were undoubtedly startled; but then the wariness intensified, and both of the women dropped their gaze floorwards submissively. When they moved to obey her order, they walked backwards from her for the first few steps before turning and leaving through one of the doors.

Travis quirked his eyebrows at her with a smile of approval.  “Way to go, Hoshi!” he whispered.  Naturally he didn't speak Yb’oan, but they’d already decided what was to be said, and he would certainly have picked up the gist of the exchange.

“Just remind me not to push my luck _too_ far with this,” she breathed.

There was a short pause.  Possibly this was because the messengers found some reason to delay delivering the demand; possibly it was because the queen was already occupied; possibly it was because she had far too much dignity to leap to obey what was effectively an order.  But whatever the reason, the minutes stretched out on a nerve-racking silence before the bead curtain jingled, and the imposing figure of the queen came through it.

If she found her unexpected visitor’s strange attire surprising, she gave no sign of it.  She had now been stripped of the regalia she’d worn in the Audience Chamber, and the face-paint that had added to her air of other-worldliness; she was wearing only a long, loose robe of pale blue silk, with a girdle of some kind of beautiful spotted fur.  Nevertheless, she was still obviously an extremely formidable woman.  Her gaze was both intelligent and shrewd, and the tilt of her head said she’d come prepared for battle.

“The hieth’a has perhaps finished with the queen’s yamyne for the present,” she said coldly.

“The hieth’a is grieved if she has deprived the queen of his services over-long.”  Hoshi bent her head just a little, and made her tone slightly conciliatory, if not apologetic.

“There was no inconvenience,” replied the other woman with a languid wave of the hand, though her eyes were anything but languid.  “A servant has informed the queen that the hieth’a desires speech with her.”

“This is the truth,” Hoshi replied promptly.  “And the hieth’a would be deeply grateful if the speech could be held where no ears could overhear.”

The shrewd gaze moved from her to Travis and back again.  “It is the queen’s practice to walk in the gardens before the heat grows oppressive.  Perhaps it is the hieth’a’s practice also."

“She finds it most pleasant.”

“So.”  Another glance at the visitor’s unorthodox clothing, and the queen picked up a gaily-embroidered shawl from a couch and handed it to her.  “It would be unfortunate if the hieth’a should sustain burns on the Sacred Marks.  And the sun is hot.”

Hoshi murmured the traditional words of thanks and wrapped the shawl around her shoulders.  Maybe she had been a bit impetuous, tearing her clothes up the way she had.

Several of the women still in the room made as though to accompany them.  One, whose proudly curving belly proclaimed her condition, seemed particularly insistent; the queen’s imperious stare bore her down, however, and she backed away with an almost insolent obeisance that Hoshi wondered was tolerated.

The room was open on one side to a wonderful tropical garden; they only had to step out on to a carefully tended grassy path, and they found themselves walking through flowering shrubs and trees.  Various paths led away on either side, but the queen clearly knew precisely where she was heading.  Soon it became clear what her intention was, when the shrubs gave way to an open, lawned space where a small, ornately-carved fountain tinkled into a pond.

Partial shade was provided to one side of it by a kind of semi-circular arbor of pierced white wood, over which fragrant orange flowers tumbled.  Neither the wood nor the flowers, however, would provide cover for an eavesdropper, and the queen walked to it unhurriedly.  There was a fan of what looked like carved and bejeweled ivory among the cushions on the bench there, and before she sat down she picked up the priceless thing and began waving it slowly to and fro.

Hoshi and Travis sat down opposite her.  The brown eyes observed this action, and drew conclusions from it.

“The hieth’a’s words will not now be overheard,” she observed coolly.  “If she wishes to speak, she may do so.”

The two ensigns glanced at each other.  Travis nodded encouragingly.

“The hieth’a must ask that the queen … lays aside for a little while her belief in the appearance of things,” Hoshi began slowly.  “The queen will know, of course, that a strange thing befell the hieth’a and the yamyne two days since.”

“It is the queen’s business to know many things.  Even some of those that happen in the domain of the gods’ zarhs.”

“Indeed.”  She swallowed; now for it.  “The queen should know that those who are before her now are not the hieth’a or the yamyne.  Their … their spirits have been exchanged.  Those who speak with the queen now are from another place.  They wish to return to it, and to allow the spirits of the hieth’a and the yamyne to return also.

“The queen will find it difficult to believe,” she added, meeting that piercing gaze full on.  “But it is the truth.”

There was a long silence.  The fan had paused, but after a moment its slow, steady wave began again.

“Has the not-hieth’a spoken of this to the zarh J’zakthi or the zarh Hezafer?”

“No.”  Feeling the silent inquisition as to the reason – after all, it would be the obvious thing to do – she risked the truth.  “The not-hieth’a is afraid.  The not-hieth’a thinks the zarhs would not believe her.  And she fears even more what they might do if they did.”

There was another long pause.  Midway through it, the queen laid the fan against her face, effectively hiding most of it, while above it those brilliant eyes bored into the tense faces opposite her.

“This is how the not-hieth’a was able to conjure up the magic from the Sacred Globe this morning.  She has knowledge that the hieth’a has not.”

“Some,” admitted Hoshi honestly, though this was a conclusion she’d hoped nobody would draw; clearly, the queen’s incisive intelligence had cut through to the heart of the matter.  “But she did not know that the exchange would be made, and she is not sure how it was made.  She wishes only to return to her own place in safety, and the not-yamyne with her.”

“If the not-hieth’a stayed here, her knowledge would be of great advantage to her.  She could use it to wield great power.  She could even, maybe, one day take precedence over the zarhs in the service of the One.”

“The not-hieth’a realizes this.  She does not want power.  She wants her own life back.”

The queen’s gaze traveled to Travis.  “The not-hieth’a can speak our language.  Why can the not-yamyne?”

“Because the not-hieth’a was …” she searched desperately for a translation of ‘communications officer’ and found none, “was taught many languages.  She learned how to learn them quickly.  The not-yamyne does not have this skill.”

The fine eyebrows rose, a little incredulously.  “The not-hieth’a has learned a language in so short a time?”

_Enterprise_ ’s comm officer cast her eyes down.  “It is what the not-hieth’a does.”

The queen was silent for a while, plainly thinking deeply.  Then she rose.  “The queen must consider everything the not-hieth’a has said.”

“Ma’am–” Travis put out a hand, though he stopped short of touching – “do you believe us?”

Hoshi translated the question.

No reply was immediately forthcoming.  Once again the other woman stared from one to the other of them, a frown between her brows.  “The queen does not _dis_ believe,” she said at last.  “But these are weighty matters.  She does not willingly trespass on matters of the gods, no matter what she may know – or believe.”

“The real hieth’a is the person who should be here.”  Hoshi put all the conviction she could muster into the words.  “The not-hieth’a may make a mistake at any moment.  The not-yamyne may do the same.  They have no-one to help them, no-one to protect them.  They are afraid!”

The candid admission won a slight softening.  “If their tale is true, they are wise to be afraid.  They may stay in the Queen’s Apartments until tomorrow, if they wish.”

“And if the zarh asks the reason?”

“The queen will send word that she has asked the hieth’a to visit and eat with her.  He will not question it.”

Hoshi finally felt some of the knots in her stomach started to loosen as she and Travis followed the queen back indoors.  It was clear that their story hadn't been dismissed out of hand, but she could imagine it was a heck of a concept to swallow whole.  And she couldn't blame the queen for being wary of getting involved in religious matters – these people obviously believed that offending the gods would risk their passage to the next life.  However, it had been the only way she could present her case and even hope to have it believed; certainly the concept of ‘machine’ was light years beyond this civilization’s ability to comprehend.

So, for the present they’d done just about everything they could.  Doubtless during the rest of the day she’d have to field more questions; their hostess was far too clever and too wary to be satisfied by the bare bones of the story she’d had thus far.  But at least until tomorrow she was free of the zarhs – even if it was unlikely that J’zakthi would accept the removal of his protégé quite as calmly as the queen supposed he would, there probably wasn't a whole lot he could do about it.

For at least a little while, they had a breathing space.


	17. Chapter 17

“Got you, you little sod.”  Malcolm allowed himself a sigh of relief as the metal sphere finally slipped free of the carved golden hands that had been shaped to hold it for eternity.

He’d been determined not to do any damage to the precious thing on which he lay.  He’d even disposed his body so that none of the zips on his clothes touched the gold surface of the inner coffin, even though this was not only uncomfortable but also made it considerably more difficult to work in the confined space.  Doubtless even the friction of his clothing was probably an outrage in archaeological terms, but right now his desperation to retrieve the two missing ensigns made that a minor consideration.  If that made him a vandal, well – he’d been worse things in his time.

At first he’d been worried that the coffin had actually been carved with the sphere _in situ_ – that there would actually be no way to get the thing free without breaking anything.  However, after a few minutes of close and anxious examination, he’d established that it would be possible to ease it loose and leave its anchorage intact, so that if all went well it could be slipped back into place and left there with no-one the wiser.  After that, it was merely a case of slowly and carefully working the sphere free.

“Sorry, mate.  Needs must,” he breathed towards the blank regal stare of the image carved into the coffin lid.  From what he could make out in such inadequate lighting, the face really didn't look much like that of the captain at all – not nearly as much as that of the chap in the wall-panel did. 

Although he’d refused to openly admit it, the resemblance to _Enterprise_ ’s bridge officers had indeed been somewhat unnerving, even to him.  There were coincidences and there were coincidences, and it was just as well that to the Yb’oa, all humans probably looked very alike.  Otherwise even they could not have helped being struck by the likeness.

Discovering the reason for this resemblance was another thing that was rather far down on his list of priorities.  Presumably there _was_ a reason, and possibly it was tied up somehow with the disappearance of Travis and Hoshi, but the important thing was getting them back safely and then getting rescued and rescuers back up to the ship without anyone ever being the wiser.  Presumably Captain Archer would have to be informed (trying to convince him that his two missing ensigns had just magically ‘materialised’ back on the ship was probably wasted effort), but Malcolm was a believer that sometimes it was better to ask forgiveness than permission.  If the two lost lambs could be safely returned to the fold with no harm done, he was willing to bet that the captain’s ire would be loud but not dangerous; and even if he lost that particular gamble, he was satisfied that he was doing no more than he must.

Now, the sphere safely in his hands, he was able to rise to his knees and pass it out to Trip, after which he was rather gladder to make his own exit than he’d willingly have admitted.  It was rather difficult to ignore the presence of that extremely intimidating weight of stone seemingly held up by nothing, even if he had every faith in the anti-grav device currently nestling on the inner coffin’s feet.

“This is where we really need Hoshi,” said the chief engineer, turning the artefact curiously in his hands.  “This letterin’ doesn't look like anything I've ever seen.

“Not that letterin’s my specialty,” he went on with a rueful grin.  “Give me a schematics diagram and I’m your man.”

“Everyone to their own.”  Malcolm turned the lamp to get the best illumination on the square buttons that were set around part of its 'equator', and picked up his scanner.  “Well, that confirms one theory.  Traces of high-energy particles.  The signature’s almost a match for that ‘temporal radiation’ stuff we encountered with that mysterious stealth ship we rescued – the one we thought had Zefram Cochrane in it.”

“Great.  Let’s hope we’re not gonna start replayin’ ourselves over and over again in here.”

“Shouldn't think so.  Compared to what we picked up from that device we examined, this one’s got the equivalent of a few smeared fingerprints.  Hardly surprising, considering how long it must have been in here.”  He changed the settings to examine the thing’s innards. “Oh, yes.  Very sophisticated stuff.  I rather doubt this was the sort of thing in daily use in a civilisation that still believed in burying their dead in posh tombs to buy their way to a comfortable afterlife.”

“Well, they must have gotten hold of it somehow.  Question is, what did Hoshi or Travis do to set it off – and how do we make it switch them back again?”

Malcolm bit his lip.  If only he’d been paying more attention!  “I’m pretty sure they were _close_ to the wall,” he said, trying for the hundredth time to re-create the scene in his mind.  “Hoshi was definitely nearer.  I know Travis was concentrating on trying not to walk too near the sarcophagus.  After how emphatic the Yb’oa were about basically acting as if it doesn't exist, obviously none of us wanted to bump into it.  I can remember him turning around, he was obviously trying to check where it was without looking as if he was actually looking at it.  Then he … I don’t know if he heard something or what.  He spun round and dived forward.  And then he and Hoshi just – vanished.”

“This is really weird – this whole thing about pretendin’ it’s not even there.”  Behind the goggles, Trip’s gaze moved thoughtfully to the great sarcophagus.  “It’s probably the most valuable thing in here in terms of what they could discover from it, and they won’t even look at the outside of it, leave alone open it up.”

“Personally, I think it’s quite charming.  Polite, even.”  He was aware that the blue eyes were now resting on him quizzically.  “Don’t you think that in some ways we've become – insensitive to the _mystique_ of life and death?  That we've just reduced a dead body to something that we can use to provide us with information?  As if it doesn't deserve any respect at all if that conflicts with our curiosity?”

“You've just been scramblin’ about on top of the guy in there.  Hardly seems to me like showin’ him that much respect,” Trip countered, with some justification in the circumstances.

“Not in the cause of _curiosity_ ,” Malcolm shot back at him, ruffled.  “If it was a case of finding out what he last had for dinner and how old he was when he died, he could stay in there with my blessing, thank you.  As it is, no, if you must know I don’t like what I've had to do.  But if it helps us get Travis and Hoshi back, that’s a good enough reason in my book.  So let’s get on with trying to work out what these bloody buttons do.”

“Aye aye, sir,” murmured Trip.  But his gaze slid sideways to the panel that he’d thought on their previous visit bore so much resemblance to a schematics diagram.  It was clear that his thoughts had travelled to the possibility of there being some connection between the two.  And as he’d just said, schematics were so much more his thing.

Malcolm grimaced.  They had very limited time in here.  Dawn was only a couple of hours off, and there was no saying how long it would take them to accomplish their task, _if_ they could find out how to do it at all – a feat that was beginning to feel more and more beyond them.

“Look, give me a few minutes to run some scans of this thing and then we’ll take it over to that corner and look at the two together.  We may be able to find some way they relate to each other.  Ten minutes, that’s all.  After that we've got to start trying to make something happen.”

“As long as it’s something we can _control,_ Loo-tenant.”  The blue gaze twinkled, though his mouth was serious.  “Won’t do _Enterprise_ any good, losin’ all four of us.”

“I have no intention of losing _any_ of us, Commandah.”  He put the scanner down on the sarcophagus lid, and walked over to the ‘schematics diagram’ panel.  For all his experience in electronics and engineering, it didn't mean a damn thing to him.  He concentrated instead on the globe his companion now handed to him.  Smooth, beautifully constructed, no seams except where the buttons were situated.  Four square buttons, which preliminary cautious pressure suggested could each move in any of four directions, any one of which could do anything … or, after all this time, nothing at all.  Though considering something somewhere had worked all too well just a couple of days ago, he’d better be damned careful what he went pressing.

Or _Enterprise_ would indeed be ‘down’ four of her senior command officers…

… And probably none of them would ever come back.


	18. Chapter 18

It was probably only to be expected that the Queen had her own suite of rooms; and very lavish they were.

Blue was evidently her favorite color.  The hangings were of blue silk, the floor mosaic inlaid with patterns picked out in tiny turquoise tiles.  The walls were decorated with the ubiquitous garden scenes, but all the flowers depicted were blue.  Blue silk cushions were heaped in one corner, suggesting that they were often used for seating purposes.  A silver cage stood in another corner, containing a dozen or so small blue birds which hopped and flirted around the branch inside it, uttering chiming calls.  Last of all, in a third corner a small tree was growing in a large ceramic pot, its drooping branches heavy with blue flowers whose perfume pervaded the whole room.

It was probably therefore not surprising that the slender twin girls who’d been waiting motionless beside the table had blue eyes, enormous against their dark lashes and milky-coffee-colored skin.  They were pretty little things, probably hardly into their teens, dressed in simple blue cotton shifts.  They had nothing on their feet, and though their ethereal fragility and quick movements as they stepped forward for orders immediately gave them an almost fairy-like quality, the apprehension in their darted looks at the queen said that they were servants – or, most likely, slaves.

Travis’s already hearty dislike of this world ratcheted up yet another notch.  If you were on the top rungs of the ladder you were fine.  For those below, it was just a life of servitude and fear.  The thought of staying here, no matter in what position of privilege, made him want to heave.

“Wonder how long it’ll be before Her Majesty makes her mind up,” he said in an undertone to Hoshi as the queen gave orders of some kind that the twins scampered away to obey. 

“Not too long, I hope,” she murmured back.  “If _Enterprise_ is only allowed to hang around without us for a week, we can’t afford to wait.  Even if it was safe for us here.  And I don’t suppose she’ll be allowed to hold on to us forever, even if she believes every word.”  She glanced to make sure nobody was close enough to overhear before adding, "Her name's Vaharaish, by the way.  I heard one of the women say it."

More servants hurried in, carrying low tables that others presently loaded with bowls of fruit and sweetmeats.  The cushions were placed carefully in position on the floor.  Several of the queen’s women put in an appearance and were sent away again – once again the pregnant one seemed ill-disposed to obey, and left last of all, looking sullen.

The queen glided to the largest heap of cushions, where attendants carefully lowered her to a reclining position.  She said something that probably meant 'Let's eat.'

Travis eyed the food.  He and Hoshi had eaten not long ago, and weren't really hungry again yet.  Fortunately this seemed like the sort of stuff you could just nibble at politely if you felt like it, and nobody would care much if it didn't all get eaten.

He wondered sourly how many of the people in the lower strata of this civilization had platters of beautifully prepared food put in front of them that they weren't even expected to finish.  Not many, at a guess.

It seemed, however, that eating wasn't the only item on the menu.  As soon as the three of them were settled, a number of children came in – boys as well as girls, all well-groomed, well-behaved, and big-eyed with awe at what was evidently a grave responsibility – and began applying scented lotion from bronze pots onto the guests’ arms, hands and feet. 

The queen submitted to the procedure with accustomed boredom; at a guess this was a concomitant of her having been out in the sunshine, which might be suspected of drying out her soft skin. 

Travis submitted to it with some discomfort.  It felt kind of creepy, he thought, but to refuse would undoubtedly cause offense – something they couldn't afford to do if they were hoping to continue claiming sanctuary.

Hoshi, however, had a problem with it.  She was okay with them rubbing the lotion into her hands and arms, but as soon as one of the children touched her feet she started to wriggle.

“Stay still,” he urged her, as their hostess looked her surprise.

“I can’t.  I’m ticklish!”  Reflexively she jerked her feet out of the way.  “No, don’t – heck, I’ll just start giggling my head off!”

Vaharaish watched in even more surprise as the two girls luckless enough to have gotten lumbered with anointing Hoshi’s feet pursued her gamely around the cushions, doubtless suspecting this was some kind of challenge they’d get into trouble for failing to meet.  Their small faces were pale, but grimly determined.  They’d had their orders.  She was going to get her feet slathered if it was the last thing they did.

It was a close thing, but she was outnumbered and reluctant to exert any real force against them.  Eventually they each captured a foot and started to slap lotion onto it, massaging it firmly into the skin.

This was catastrophic for any supposed dignity the ‘hieth’a’ was supposed to have.  Hoshi writhed on the cushions, torn between hysterical laughter and frustration as she kicked helplessly in the children’s determined grip.

Watching her, Travis couldn't help but dissolve into mirth himself.  He’d been pinned down and tickled a few times himself, so he wasn't all that concerned about her well-being; and it was kind of fun to see someone else reduced to tears of laughter, even if she wasn't cutting all that dignified a figure with her improvised skirt riding perilously up towards her butt.  At least she’d had the forethought to fashion herself a pair of improvised pants to go underneath it.

Eventually, to her obvious relief, the anointing was finished.  Probably equally relieved, the children collected their pots, bowed to the company, and were about to make their escape when Travis caught hold of the arm of the boy nearest to him.  “Wait a minute,” he said gently.  “Here.  Help yourself to some of this food.  Just our way of saying ‘thanks’ to you and the others.”

The boy naturally didn't understand him, and simply stared when he picked up the nearest tray loaded with little cakes.  “Have some of these.  Hell, take the whole thing.  Share it out between you.”  He pressed the tray into the unresisting hands, pointing to him and the other kids and miming eating.  “Go on.  Scram.”

Hoshi gasped in enough air to translate.  The boy looked towards the queen, who stared at Travis and then nodded.

Almost as one, the children bobbed again, and the face of the kid holding the tray split into a huge grin of delight.  They left the apartment in decent order, but sounds of childish dispute in the corridor outside suggested that the tray was already the subject of mobbing as the doors closed.  Adult voices marshaled the uproar out of earshot, sounding scandalized – though whether by the guest’s unprecedented generosity or by the breakdown of proper decorum, would probably never be known.

Wine was now brought in.  Still chuckling, the two Starfleet officers accepted half a glass each.  The apartment was already warm, but the wine was thin and cool, refreshing on the palate.

Queen Vaharaish accepted a whole glass and sipped at the contents, watching her guests thoughtfully.  Presently a movement of her head dismissed the attendants who were evidently normally thought of as part of the background, to judge by their startled expressions as they departed.

She waited until the last had vanished through the doors before she leaned forward and asked Hoshi a question, low-voiced.

Hoshi stared back at her for a long moment, and then turned to Travis.  "She wants to know if this behavior is normal in our world."


	19. Chapter 19

For a moment Hoshi was completely taken aback.  Then she realized that although nothing had probably been further from Travis’s thoughts, his generous kindness towards the children had set the seal on the queen’s previously uncertain belief that they’d been telling the truth.  At a guess, the real ‘yamyne’ would probably hardly notice their existence, let alone deign to feed them delicacies intended for the royal table.  In hindsight, her own behavior had probably contributed to that conviction too; it was hardly in keeping with the status of a servant of the gods to let herself be tickled halfway to hysterics by a bunch of kids while a good dozen hangers-on stood around open-mouthed in astonishment.

“The people there are much like the people here,” she replied at last.  “Travis – this man’s name is Travis, the not-hieth’a’s is Hoshi – is a good man.  He and Hoshi are friends.”

“‘Travis’.” Vaharaish tested the word on her tongue.  In keeping with High Yb’oan principles of pronunciation, the ‘a’ preceding a ‘v’ was heavily accented and drawn out, so that it was pronounced _Traavis._ ‘Hoshi’ had its two syllables so distinctly emphasized that they sounded almost like separate words: _Ho Shi._

“It has always been our belief that the spirits do not reveal their names,” she commented, plainly surprised and further disarmed by this evidence of trust.

“They do this only to those they find worthy.  _Some_ will never learn them!”  Hoshi shot a flashing glare in the direction of the doorway, thinking of the zarhs.

It was obvious that Vaharaish understood perfectly well to whom she was referring.  Her mouth tightened.  “The queen and her guests must be careful.  There are ears everywhere, even here.”

Hoshi lowered her voice and leaned closer.  “The queen must understand – her guests must return to their own world as soon as possible.  To do that, they must examine the Sacred Globe.  They believe that that is the key to what has happened.  If the not-hieth’a can examine the marks on it, she can perhaps find out how the exchange was made, and – and turn it back again.”

The older woman picked up a small cake and ate it slowly, thinking.  “This may be possible. But it will not be easy.”

“Even for a few minutes,” the ensign said desperately.

The brown gaze traveled towards the door.  “The not-hieth’a will not move a step around this palace without one or both of the zarhs knowing of it.  And that is a thing the queen is powerless to prevent.”

Quickly, Hoshi translated what had been said for Travis’s benefit.  As no-one here could speak English, she could speak quite normally.

“So couldn't _I_ get a look at it?” he asked eagerly.  “If I could borrow some, some parchment and pens or something, I could make a drawing and you could check it out afterwards….”

“We’d have to make sure nobody was paying you any attention,” she said slowly, hating the idea that had insinuated itself into her mind.  No – there had to be another route than that…

“Come on, you’re the important one around here.  I’m just the plaything.”  He forced gaiety into his voice, so that she squeezed his arm consolingly.  “Who’s going to be paying any attention to little old me, anyway?”

“Don’t talk yourself down, Travis.  And don’t underestimate the enemy.  These guys want to know _everything_ that goes on.”  She paused, and turned back to the queen, lowering her voice back to a murmur.  “If the not-hieth’a did something that would attract the attention of the zarhs, does the queen believe that it would be safe for Travis to be taken to examine the Sacred Globe?”

Vaharaish pondered the question.  “There could be no certainty,” she said at last, looking steadily back at her guest.  “But it is the hieth’a whom both of them desire, for her beauty as well as her power.  She knows this.  The not-hieth’a could use that, if she was brave enough.”

Hoshi swallowed.  “Is there no other way?”

“None safer.”  The fine brows rose a little, curiously.  “Do not women in the other world take lovers?”

Another swallow.  “Well, yes, they do.  But – the not-hieth’a is afraid of the zarhs.”

“She is wise to be.  But the choosing is not until the Feast of Tides.  They will not dare to anger the gods by taking her before then.  For all else – they are but men, after all.”  A glimmer of a humor that was as ancient as womankind.  “They desire what they can see, and the more they see, the more they will desire.  And the more they desire, the less they will be able to think.”

The queen clapped her hands, and two servants hurried in, received their orders, bowed obsequiously and hurried out again.

“The decision rests with the not-hieth’a,” Vaharaish resumed, sipping from her goblet of wine.  “But were the queen in her place, Vaharaish would strike at once, not waiting for some mischance to uncover her secret.  Time favors the zarhs, not the not-hieth’a.”

Hoshi linked her hands in her lap to steady them, and explained to Travis what had been suggested.  “From what she’s saying, I think neither of them will dare actually sleep with me until the ‘Feast of Tides’, whenever that is.  But in the meantime, I can maybe give them something to think about – take their minds off what you’re getting up to.”

Predictably, he was horrified.  “I can’t believe she’s even suggesting that!  After what that Hezafer guy did to you this afternoon?”

“Travis, I think we’re going to have to risk it.  I can’t believe she’d suggest it if she didn't think it was safe for me.  These people really _believe_ in their religion.  If they think their gods would be angry if I was touched before the right time, they won’t dare do it.”

“Man, that’s still a hell of a risk!”

“How many other options do we have?  We daren’t wait around – we just don’t know how to act to fit in.  There are just too many things that could go wrong.  And even if we could manage here, _Enterprise_ isn't going to hang around forever, waiting for us.  They won’t be allowed to.”

“This time business gives me a headache.”  The helmsman grimaced.  “I suppose technically speaking, if we manage to find our way back, we could arrange to arrive before they leave.  And then they wouldn't leave without us at all, even if they actually did by the time we found out.”

Hoshi pressed a hand to her forehead.  “No wonder the Vulcans won’t admit time travel exists.”

“Maybe they can’t handle the logic of being able to make something that happened not happen by going back to before it started.  In which case it didn't happen so you couldn't make it not happen anyway… aw, that’s enough.”  He shook his head.  “Hoshi, I don’t like the idea at all.  You said yourself you don’t trust either of them.  Now you’re suggesting going _asking_ for trouble.”

“You think I want to?  The only thing I want less is to stay here and be found out.  I don’t know what they’d do and I don’t want to find out the hard way.  Travis, I don’t _want_ to do this, but I think I _have_ to.”

At that moment the servants returned, their arms weighted down by sheets of linen.  These were carefully laid down on the couch, and then one by one each was opened, revealing the garment it had protected: fabrics of all colors, fine as gossamer, every one plainly the product of hours of work by unbelievably skilled hands.  Modesty had certainly not been the foremost consideration in their design; its demands had been technically satisfied by strategically placed clusters of jewels or embroidery, and in some cases only one patch had been thought necessary.  The dresses were like something you’d see in a lingerie catalog from the most expensive Paris fashion houses; each must be worth thousands of credits, and if the gems were real – which they probably were – then make that _hundreds_ of thousands.

When all the dresses were laid out for inspection, it looked as though someone had poured a rainbow all over the floor and furniture.  The servants bowed respectfully to the queen, and made their exit.

“If the not-hieth’a were to wear such clothing in front of men who desire her, she could be certain that she would command their attention fully,” the queen remarked, with another shimmer of knowing amusement.  “She may choose.”

“But what if it was to be damaged?” asked Hoshi, appalled by the prospect.  She was taking a gamble as it was; and at least one of the men whose interest she was supposed to be courting was thoroughly untrustworthy.  Thanks to the self-defense lessons aboard _Enterprise_ she was fairly confident she could take care of herself, but the slightest mishandling of fabric like this would be ruinous.  And it was all too easy to visualize Hezafer making a grab.

Vaharaish shrugged.  “The queen has others.”

Hoshi stared at the dresses.  She was feminine enough to quite like the idea of wearing something that glamorous and using it to provoke two rival admirers, but she was also enough of a realist to know that it was a horribly risky plan in these circumstances.  However, she absolutely had to hold their attention while Travis got hold of that damn ball.

“Will the queen arrange for Travis to be shown where the Sacred Globe is kept?” she asked almost in a whisper.

A nod.  “He will be shown.  The not-hieth’a should establish how long will it take for him to copy the marks.”

Frowning, Hoshi thought over what she could remember of the sphere.  It had been perfectly plain except for the glyphs incised in the metal at each side of the four square buttons set into it.  They weren't especially complex, as best she could recall them, but he had to draw them precisely and it would be best to factor in time for him to check what he’d done.  And there again, he wouldn't have had any experience in using whatever implements these people used for copying purposes, so he’d be slower than normal.

All things taken into account, she calculated he should be able to do a reasonable job in about half an hour.

Half an hour, in which she must keep two hungry sharks circling.

“It would be wise if he could practice using a writing instrument in the meantime,” she said at last.

“That shall be arranged.”

“The not-hieth’a can see no other way.  She is grateful for the queen’s help.”

Vaharaish looked at her steadily.  “If the plan miscarries, there will be little the queen can do to rescue either the not-hieth’a or the not-yamyne.  If the zarhs unite against her, she will be destroyed.”

“Would the oo’oacu not intervene?”

“The oo’oacu would not dare flout the will of the gods.”

“And that is what the zarhs do – interpret the will of the gods?”

“Among other things.”  A faint shrug.  “They have great learning.  Few can interpret the Sacred Marks.  And for that reason, they have great influence.”

“Then the not-hieth’a is grateful for the queen’s warning as well as her help.  She would not wish the queen to endanger herself.”

“So.  It is agreed.  The hour before sunset is usually a resting time here in the palace.  That would be the time for the not-yamyne to make the attempt; there will be few witnesses in the corridors to see him.  If the not-hieth’a is gone from here, so will be the zarh’s spies on her.  The queen will arrange for him to be taken then where he should go.

“And in the meantime, he can practice his writing skills and the not-hieth’a can decide which of the dresses she finds most suitable.  And the queen would consider herself repaid if they could tell her of life in the other world.”

Hoshi hesitated.  Starfleet personnel were not supposed to contaminate pre-warp cultures, but she wasn't sure that this exactly counted.  It wasn't like they’d be leaving alien technology behind or anything like that; to a culture this primitive, stories of traveling in a starship to visit the worlds that circled other stars would be up on a par with fairy tales.  Nothing she could tell would actually enable them to achieve it, and as for making them aware that other sentient life forms existed, well, that cat was already out of the bag.

Still, there _was_ that prohibition.  And technically speaking, she was still a serving Starfleet officer.  So it was probably best that she didn't go into detail about _Enterprise_ and how she’d come to be visiting the Yb’oa, and it certainly wouldn't be tactful to mention that she and Travis had been ‘abducted’ while they were actually inside a royal tomb.  Still, there would be more than enough that she could tell about their society, which was different on so many levels from this one.  And the request – rather than the order it could have been – had been made with a quiet dignity that appealed to her.  Maybe the resemblance to T’Pol wasn't as artificial as it seemed.

“The not-hieth’a will be pleased to satisfy the queen’s curiosity insofar as she can,” she replied quietly.  “It is a small repayment for the queen’s generosity.”


	20. Chapter 20

“Look.  I’ve just noticed something.”  Trip gestured towards the wall panel which he’d been earnestly studying.  “It’s got sixteen separate sections.”

Malcolm glanced up from the sphere.  “So?”

“So there are sixteen pieces of letterin’ on that thing.  One on each side of each of those buttons.  What if each of those words – or whatever they are – corresponds to one of these panels?”

Reed had placed the sphere on top of the sarcophagus and was carefully scanning it from various angles.  Now he pursed his lips and stared thoughtfully from sphere to panel.  “It’s certainly a theory.  Can we see anything that matches the inscriptions themselves?”

“Can but try.  Bring it over here again.”

It didn’t take long to find the match.  The corresponding set of carefully delineated marks was in the top right hand corner of each square.

“Gotcha!”  Trip smacked a fist into a palm.  “It’s a set of _instructions._ Probably reproduces something that was on the machine itself.  Now if we can work out what each of them means…”

“Bloody hell, Commander, considering we don’t even speak the language, how long have we got?”

“We’ve got as long as it takes, if we’re careful.”  He ignored Malcolm’s arctic _‘I’m the security officer, and I know exactly where the limits of this operation are’_ stare.  “So we know that there’s a limit to this machine’s field of operation.  There must have been more than twenty people in here when Hoshi and Travis disappeared, but they were the only ones taken.  Probably because they were the only ones within its range.”  Another stare that said this was an unproven theory, but it was accompanied only by a dubious ‘Hmm’, so he ignored that as well, or at least took it for cautious admittance that as theories went, it was plausible.  “So I’m guessin’ that if we stay at a safe distance we can play around with the buttons and see what happens with that machine in there.  If anything.”

His companion’s scowl said that it was not at all a satisfactorily safe plan, but then nothing about what they were doing was safe.  “What the bloody hell were they doing burying the damn thing in the wall anyway?  If they’d only left it in plain view we’d have had it open in a trice.”

“I don’t suppose they actually wanted to leave it where just anyone _could_ ‘have it open’,” replied Trip dryly.

“Fine.  So we’re reduced to hoping that being shoved into a hole in the wall and coated with plaster for two thousand years or so won’t have done it any significant damage.”

“It didn't do it enough to stop it workin’ on Hoshi and Travis.”

This evidently prodded a sore spot.  The scowl deepened.  “Well, there doesn't seem to be any alternative, does there?  We've got to press something.   If we use the scanner to keep track of what sort of responses we get, we may be able to put together some kind of plan of action.  Obviously we won’t know what the responses _do,_ but at least we’ll know where they _are_.  One of the buttons may comprise some kind of setting function.”  He looked at them closely.

Trip stared at the panel again.  “You know what puzzles me?  If this is a controller, it acted when there was nobody controllin’ it.  The guy in there sure wasn't pressin’ any buttons.”

“So – that leaves the possibility that someone else _was_ , at some other point in time.  If that’s actually how this thing works.  If only we had more time!”  The lieutenant glanced angrily at the doorway.  “These are all things the Yb’oa themselves should be doing!”

“Not with that gadget you’re holdin’.  They probably wouldn't even use it if we put it in their hands, knowin’ where it’d come from.  And I wouldn't like to find out what they’d do to us for takin’ it out of there.”

Malcolm stiffened.  “If we are discovered, sir, I take full responsibility.  It was I who desecrated the sarcophagus.  My fingerprints will confirm that.”

“Loo-tenant, I’m the rankin’ officer here.  The responsibility’s mine.  Sorry to disappoint you an’ all.”  Trip shot an amused glance at his junior, and then sobered.  “Right.  Let’s get on with it.  We’ll start with the left-hand button, that seems to be the one the first panel refers to.”

“With respect, sir – I’d suggest the second might be a better choice. This first one is slightly different from the other three.  If you look at it logically, I’d imagine the first functions on any machine would be concerned with settings.  And if our ensigns _were_ transported ‘somewhere’, any change in the settings might make it impossible to locate them.”

“Malcolm, we may make an engineer out of you yet.  So.  The second button.  First panel, second row.”  Just to be sure, they verified that the markings matched.  “Pass me the scanner.  And hold the button for a maximum of two seconds, then switch off.  No matter what happens.”

“Aye, sir.”  The Englishman placed his thumb carefully over the button.  “Moving to twelve o’clock on your mark.”

Trip readied the scanner, focusing its readings on the nearest of the four innocuous-looking metallic domes in the wall that had been the cause of all the trouble.  “Three, two, _mark!_ ”

The briefest delay told him that there had been some resistance to the pressure on the button; heck, it hadn't been moved for hundreds of years, if not thousands.  But the click said that it had yielded, and an instant later the reading on the scanner lifted from its base line of background radiation.  Something had switched itself on.

There was no visual change, certainly none that the infra-red light would show.  It was difficult to determine whether the sound he thought he could detect was his imagination or actually there, but it felt like the lowest imaginable hum, heard more through the bones than the air.  A different setting on the scanner would confirm that and run an analysis of how it was being produced, but right now he was more interested in the radiation signature that was coming off the hidden machine.

Another click, and both hum and radiation ceased; precisely after two seconds, Malcolm had switched the button back to what was presumably its ‘neutral’ position.

“Savin’ to memory for comparison,” Trip said beneath his breath.  “Right.  Next direction, on my mark….”

They worked methodically through all of the three buttons they’d decided would be safe to test.  When they were done, the scanner presented them with a neat display of twelve different signatures, any of which could mean anything.

“The different terminals operate at different times,” Malcolm said, studying the comparison screen with knitted brows.  “They obviously have different functions.  So we can probably eliminate all of them except the one that Hoshi was closest to.”

“That takes out eight of ‘em.  Four left.  We’ll keep the others out of the picture just for the meantime.”  Trip deftly shifted the surplus eight into the background and brought up another screen that magnified those that remained.  “So we still don’t know what any of these do, or _how_ it happened that the machine switched itself on.  Because unless it was on some kind of timer, which seems to me a mite far-fetched as a coincidence, machines _don’t_ just switch themselves on.”

“A proximity sensor, perhaps?  Or could she have activated it by actually touching the terminal itself?”

“I doubt it.”  He frowned down at the readings.  “There doesn't seem to be any reason why she _would_ have touched it.  This is an archaeological site.  She’d know better than to just go ‘round touchin’ things for nothing.”  With the dexterity of years of practice, he shifted the parameters, and found the answer he’d been hoping for.  “But when it’s on, it _does_ make a noise.  And if anyone’s goin’ to pick that up, it’s Hoshi.  So maybe that would’ve gotten her interested – interested enough to check it out.”

“To move within range, you mean.”  The lieutenant heaved a sigh.  “Well, it fits the information we have.  What it  _doesn't_ give us is any clue as to how to reverse the process.”

“The only thing I can think of is to keep workin’ them in rotation.  I can patch my communicator into it and pick up the frequency, and piggyback in a message in Morse.  Won’t mean anything to anyone who isn't human, but if either of our people hear it they’ll know what it is.”

“But if they do hear it, and it brings them within range of the machine….”

“Malcolm, I don’t have all the answers!  All I know is that we've got to reach them somehow.  And maybe if we get lucky and work the right program it might bring them back again.  Or at least they might be able to work with us, find some way to get back if they know we’re here.”

The gray eyes were deeply troubled behind the goggles.  “It all sounds a bit too full of ifs and maybe’s, Commander.  What if it sends them somewhere _else?_ ”

Trip hunkered down, set down the scanner on the floor, and heaved a huge sigh.  “We could ask questions till the Yb’oa come in and find us sometime next year.  Bottom line is, we don’t speak the language and we don’t know what these buttons do.  But if we don’t make them do _something_ , Travis and Hoshi are stuck wherever they are.  If we sent them somewhere else?  I can’t answer that.  But seems to me that unless we get them home, there may not be all that much of a difference between one place and another – not as far as we can tell anyway.  I grant you, we might actually end up sendin’ them from an island on Hawaii to a prehistoric forest full of dinosaurs, but what options do we have?”

“As long as all the dinosaurs are Stegosauruses,” said Malcolm with a faint smile, recalling a conversation they’d had once.

“Yeah.  Let’s just hope they don’t end up in the Yb’oan equivalent of the Spanish Armada.”  He took his communicator from his pocket and began tweaking the controls.  “How’s your Morse?”


	21. Chapter 21

Well, this was it – time to go.

Hoshi had gone some ten minutes earlier, the shawl wrapped for decency’s sake around a dress that frankly had imprinted itself on Travis’s retinas until he’d dragged his eyes away with a physical effort.  When she got around to removing the fancy shawl, he’d absolutely guarantee she’d hold the unbroken attention of anything red-blooded and male.  Part of him had wanted to plead with her to choose something even a little less provocative, but he’d known that it would be wasted effort.  She was doing this to buy him time, and she was spending the highest coin she had.  He could only hope and pray that it wouldn't wind up costing her far more than she wanted to pay.

He was back to not being able to speak a word of the language.  Fortunately the queen now understood this, and was giving specific instructions to one of the young twins from earlier, who stood staring at him like he was only waiting for the word to leap forward and tear her limb from limb.

Having finished, Vaharaish turned from the girl and touched his shoulder lightly.  Naturally he couldn't understand the words, but he knew the tone that meant ‘Good luck’, even if he wished he didn't also pick up the unspoken rider ‘You’ll need it’.

The other of the twins stepped to check that the coast was clear.  Dumbly she looked back and nodded; it was safe.

Travis took a deep breath.  There was no turning back now.

The palace was very quiet.  The red light of evening filled the airy spaces of the corridor as the two of them walked quickly and quietly down it.

Once again he had reason to be thankful he had a guide.  The place was worse than a warren, and all the junctions led off into passageways that looked exactly the same.  He’d have been lost within the first five minutes.

Several times the girl stopped, freezing into place against a wall while someone spoke inside a room they were passing.  He stopped too, perforce, wondering what the heck was being said; wondering with sick anger what it was like to be a slave who can die for hearing the wrong thing.

But it appeared that the hour of rest was pretty broadly observed.  They met no-one.  At last the girl stopped and pointed fearfully towards a door set in one corner of a corridor that was oddly void of ornament.

“Thank you,” he said pointlessly, hoping she’d get the message anyway.  “You can go back now.  Shoo.”

Evidently she got some of it.  She bit her lip and shook her head, pantomiming ‘ten’ with her spread fingers and then walking away and coming back repeatedly. 

He frowned.  Either she had to come back for him ten times, or she’d come back every ten … whatever their units of time were.

Well, in one way it was a relief.  His chances of finding his way back to the Queen’s Rooms unaided were … well, even his natural optimism was strained to consider them good, but he’d realized from the start that asking anyone to stay with him was to put them in extreme danger.  And to do this to a slave, who had no choice, was unthinkable.

It seemed that Vaharaish had felt no such qualms.  The girl had received her orders, and wouldn’t dare even think of disobeying them.  Barring accidents, his escape route was secured.

In a place like this, of course, accidents were the sort of thing you could practically guarantee would happen.  But there wasn't a whole lot he could do about it right now, and the sooner he got inside and got a hold of that ‘magic ball’, the sooner he’d be able to get his task over and done with.  Half an hour, Hoshi had estimated; he just hoped she’d gotten a good look at the markings, and hadn't overestimated his skill with a paintbrush.  He took a fresh, nervous grip of the woven case of writing implements in his hands.  He’d had a couple of hours’ practice and was better at it than he’d been when he started, but that was about the best he could say.

As his guide flitted back along the corridor as soundlessly as a moth, he walked to the door and pushed it cautiously.  If it was locked…

It wasn’t.  The carved wood gave to his push without a sound, opening on a room that was smaller than he’d expected, and dimly lit.

Such illumination as there was came from perfumed wax lights arranged in a semi-circle around the foot of a tall statue at the end of the room – presumably that of the local deity.  Travis didn't spare the figure more than a glance, because his interest was seized at once by what was standing against the wall almost opposite it, appearing quite astonishingly anachronistic among what were quite plainly the trappings of this world’s religion.

It wasn't that big, perhaps the size of a gambling machine in a casino.  A metal structure of this design and finish, however, was completely beyond the capability of this civilization.  The wavering light gleamed on satiny smoothness, and the reflections of the flames danced in presently-unlit display panels.  It was at least as sophisticated as the machinery aboard _Enterprise_ , and Travis’s heart sank as he recognized the four projecting domes.  The mystery of how he and Hoshi had gotten here was now well on the way to being explained.

How it had come to be here was a mystery for which he’d probably never find an explanation.  How it had come to be suddenly switched on after it had been plastered into the wall of a tomb for a couple of thousand years was another puzzle, but the answer to that one probably lay in the orb that rested in the ornate wooden box in front of it.  Hoshi had explained to him everything she’d managed to find out so far.  The woman whose body she was now inhabiting must have been tampering with it, probably in the effort to improve her standing with the zarhs and the oo’oacu.  Presumably she’d been experimenting, trying to find what the various buttons did when they were pressed.  This time, it seemed, she’d gotten rather more than she’d bargained for.

He’d gleaned already that the priestess – or whatever she was – had been a little more than friendly with his own ‘host’.  Presumably he was close enough to be within range when the accident happened; perhaps they’d even been in here, snatching a little sneaky canoodling under cover of the ‘experiment’.  His own proximity to Hoshi back in the tomb in their own time had been enough to involve him in what had happened; it was more than likely that the yamyne had been similarly snatched into an event utterly beyond his control.

Moving quickly and quietly, he opened the box and lifted the sphere from inside it.  To get the best light available he carried the device over to the foot of the statue, placed it on the polished marble and spread out his parchment in front of it, moving the wax lights in their pots to both anchor it and illuminate the text he needed to copy.  His hours of practicing with the fine brush pen had made him reasonably deft, and as he placed the pot of ink carefully at a convenient distance where it couldn't be accidentally knocked over, he wasn't feeling too worried that he wouldn't be able to do a good job.  His worries were all for Hoshi, who was playing a dangerous game with dangerous men.

Still, she’d taken the risk to buy him time, and he wasn't going to waste it.  He moved the nearest pot closer, so that its gently wavering flame reflected directly in the burnished surface of the sphere, right over the angular markings engraved beside the first of the four buttons.  And then he set to work.

=/\=

He’d been working for perhaps fifteen minutes by his estimate, and was all but finished, when he suddenly became aware that the silence was no longer complete.

The small sound had been going on for some time in the background of his consciousness before he actually became aware of it.  Probably most of his failure to react to it sooner was due to the fact that since the day of his birth he’d lived in an environment maintained by machinery.  The faint hum of electricity was simply something he almost never noticed, and he almost certainly wouldn't have noticed it now but for the fact that his brain picked up the irksome irregularities in the sound.  He actually caught himself thinking _‘Something around here sure needs fixing’_ before the realization hit him: the damn time machine was working again.

Well, at least he didn't seem to be inside the danger zone this time.  He turned around, eyeing it warily.

It didn't seem to be working too well.  There went that buzzing again, off and on, off and on, like someone was manipulating a current…

He and Paul had occasionally been confined to their respective quarters, back on the _Horizon_ , usually for some boisterous boyish infraction. They were technically forbidden to talk to one another, and Mom would have picked up comm traffic.  However, their cabins were close enough for vibration to carry along the air vents if the grille was tapped with something like a fork or a knife; and though voices might carry to ears in other cabins whose denizens might feel duty-bound to report their activities, Morse Code had enabled them to carry on illicit conversations on many occasions.

And however senseless it might seem, this broken buzzing was starting to sound mightily like Morse.

It had been years since the days of confinement aboard _Horizon_ , and almost as long since he’d given a single thought to that particular means of communication.  To say his skills at it were rusty was probably the understatement of the century.  But he listened hard, his heart suddenly pounding.

_-E-R-_ something- _R-I-_ something _-E…_

_Enterprise!_

He had to reply, had to get the attention of whoever … but how?

He moved to the wall alongside the machine and inched closer, dreading at every moment to pitch into blackness but not daring to stop in case that transmission stopped, never to start again.  “Keep going, guys, _please,_ ” he pleaded in a whisper, knowing it was senseless; how could they possibly hear his voice over however many centuries of time? 

But it seemed that fate favored him.  By the time he’d finally slid up to the side of the machine, one of the lamps gripped in his left hand, the summons was still repeating itself.

There were plenty of buttons and dials on the front, insofar as he could see by peering very warily around at it – the last thing he needed was to come within range of those domes.  But he didn't know what any of them did.

So maybe the _inside_ of the machine might just possibly offer him more possibilities.

It stood to reason that every machine must have some point for people to access it, to carry out servicing or repairs.  And however remarkable its abilities were, this was just a machine.

Okay, so he wasn't the ship’s Chief Engineer – Trip would definitely have come in handy in this situation.  But he’d still gotten his qualifications, and serving aboard _Enterprise_ had meant he’d come in for plenty of on-the-spot experience.  He could tell one end of a circuit from the other, if whoever had built this thing had put it together in anything like a recognizable way.

His free right hand fluttered lightly up the back edge of the side panel.  It wouldn't make sense to put an access point at the back of something if it was designed to rest against a wall; although it was possible that it was designed to be free-standing, and if that was the case he was out of luck, because this thing was solid, and there was no way he could move it on his own….

“Oh, man,” he moaned softly.  It had to be on the other side.  Or on the back.

He’d walked past the thing safely enough when he’d come in, though he’d given it quite a wide berth.  But then, it hadn't been plainly working.

How far away was far enough?

He tried to recreate the scene in the tomb, how close Hoshi had been to the wall when that – that effect started.  Close enough to touch, he thought.  And after that, he himself had been the next closest.  Whether he’d have been snatched if he hadn't moved, there was no saying; he _had_ moved.  He hadn't had any choice about that when the image of her had started to … well, blur, like she was going out of focus, dissolving away into nothing.

With a shudder, he shook the memory away.

Well.  He had no choice.  He’d have to take the chance.  It would have helped if the room had been bigger, but although it was quite long it was pretty narrow; it wouldn't offer him more than about three meters’ clearance, even if he flattened himself against the opposite wall.

With a sigh of resignation he moved slowly and cautiously across the room, veering a little to his left to allow extra space before he reached the other side.  At a guess, he wouldn't get any warning; Hoshi hadn't seemed to know anything about it before she was seized. 

Right.  He was at the wall.  Now he had to go sideways, and pray that the distance would be enough if that damn thing over there was operating.

Keeping his back pressed against the smooth plaster as though he was trying to force himself into it, he edged to his left, watching the machine as though fearing it would suddenly leap across the room and attack him.

Nothing happened. 

He was just over halfway back on the other side when the Morse stopped.

With a wail of despair, he threw himself the rest of the way.  The candle flame in the lamp he carried blew sideways and almost went out, but steadied as he reached the right side of the machine and began feeling frantically for anything that felt like a catch…

And found one.  He got a fingertip into a little shallow niche that concealed a tiny lever.  This gave easily, and the whole side of the machine released, allowing him to pry it open.

Working electronics greeted his gaze.  Most of them were unfamiliar of course, but as his eyes ran desperately over the conformation he picked out a few things that looked as though they _might_ perform the sort of function he needed.

What choice did he have?  If he and Hoshi stayed here, it was all but a certainty they’d very shortly end up _dead._

He picked a circuit almost at random.  Deftly he took hold of a connector that was clipped, not soldered – he could put it back into place afterwards.  Then he took a deep breath, and pulled.

Lights blinked at him in apparent concern.  He pushed the connector back in and started work.  _Dot, dot, dot – dash, dash, dash – dot, dot, dot…._ Keep it short, to get their attention.  SOS, SOS, SOS – Man, there had to be someone still listening – there had to be!

After sending the signal three times, he stopped.  There was no sound but the faint hum of the machine and the beating of his own palpitating heart.

Then, after an eternity:

_C-O-N-F-I-R-M_

_“Yes!”_ He almost sobbed with relief.  He had to tell them who he was.  What the hell was Morse for ‘T’?  ‘Mayweather’ would take too long, and as for ‘Ensign’, well that was taking formality a _way_ step too far.

…Idiot!  A single dash.  How the heck could he have forgotten that?

With fingers that were suddenly trembling, he manipulated the connector again to tap out the six letters.  He even remembered ‘S’ after a moment’s thought.

For good measure, he added _D-A-N-G-E-R_ and _H-O-S-H-I_.  Weird and wonderful, how the letters came back once you started using them again.  _I-D-E-N-T-I-F-Y_ , he went on, somewhat belatedly and mostly just for reassurance; who else was likely to be trying to contact him using the word ENTERPRISE?

_R-E-E-D / T-U-C-K-E-R_

_T-R-Y-I-N-G / R-E-S-C-U-E_

_A-D-V-I-S-E / D-A-N-G-E-R_

Now, how the heck was he to respond to that?  How to convey the complexity of their situation with a few taps on a machine?  He could imagine all too clearly the two officers at the other end, waiting desperately, helplessly, for a response.

Basically, he couldn't even try to explain right now.

_N-E-E-D / E-S-C-A-P-E_ , he tapped out.  _U-R-G-E-N-T_

_T-O-G-E-T-H-E-R-?_

The question he’d been dreading.

_N-O. / S-O-O-N_

A terrible little pause.

_H-O-S-H-I / S-A-F-E-?_

Now, how was he to answer that?

_H-O-P-E / S-O. / B-U-Y-I-N-G / T-I-M-E_

_T-R-U-S-T / Y-O-U_

The terse reply brought a lump to his throat.  He was still far from sure he’d done the right thing, allowing his fellow-ensign to take the risk she had, but so far it had paid off.  The relief of having some contact, _any_ contact, with his senior officers was like suddenly getting oxygen when you were suffocating.

_C-O-N-T-A-C-T / W-H-E-N / T-O-G-E-T-H-E-R,_ the tapping went on.  _T-R-Y / R-E-S-C-U-E._ Then, after another ominous pause, _R-I-S-K-Y_

Travis shrugged, forgetting that they couldn't see him.  _S-T-A-Y / F-A-T-A-L_ , he replied.  _T-A-K-E / C-H-A-N-C-E_

It dawned on him then that time was passing, and he must have very little of it left in which to finish the painting.  _G-O-T / T-O / G-O_

_W-A-I-T-I-N-G._

The tapping stopped.  He reconnected the terminal, and hurried across the room to where he’d left the globe and the parchment.

There were only a couple more dashes to record.  He inked them down carefully, then carried the globe back and put it in its box.  He secured the side panel again; nobody now would ever know it or the machine had been touched.

It took only a moment to rearrange all the candle lamps and pick up the parchment.  He hadn't had time to check his work; he’d have preferred to do so, but what he’d done instead was infinitely more important.

He wasn't wearing a chronometer, but his sense of time passing was starting to bear heavily on him. He’d been here longer than he’d expected to be, probably more than half an hour.  Still, no alarm had been raised.  Now he only had to find Hoshi and get her back to this room.  He could only pray that when he got back to the Queen’s Rooms he’d find her there, safe and sound, and none the worse for her risky escapade.

He opened the door a crack, listened, and heard nothing.  Peering out might look suspicious if anyone was passing.  It would be safer for him to act confident, as though there was nothing out of the ordinary in him exiting a room that probably most of the people in the Palace wouldn't dare even set foot in.

He opened the door wider and stepped out into the corridor, where he turned left, hoping to see the slave girl waiting for him.  Instead, he saw the smiling face of a man who was far too damn like Commander Tucker.

There was a sudden shocking pain in the back of his head, and the floor came rushing up at him.

And then the world went black.


	22. Chapter 22

The gardens around the Palace were beautiful.

This one, reserved for the Queen and her guests, was particularly gorgeous.  In this hot climate water was a precious commodity, but you would never have thought so here, where the stuff stood in sparkling pools and trickled through waterfalls in a tinkling rain, sparkling in the last level rays of light.

There was no protection from the sun up here on the roof.  Just to survive in the heat, this garden must consume hundreds of liters of water a day, but it was lush and green and beautifully tended.  At a guess a small army of gardeners and slaves were solely devoted to its care, but right now it was deserted, and the heady perfumes wasted themselves on the hot, still air.

Hoshi took off her sandals and wandered along the lawned path, wriggling her toes in the grass that was so carefully and closely cropped that hardly a blade of it lay out of place.  Then she walked over to the nearest pond and seated herself on the marble surround, on the place where a single long solid slab invited visitors to rest and relax and admire the denizens of the pond.

She’d expected fish, but instead the lilac-colored waterlilies shifted to reveal odd little creatures that looked more like baby octopuses.  They were evidently tame and used to being fed, for they swam and slithered to the side, reaching small arms out of the water in hope of tidbits.  Their eyes were crimson, startling against their vivid green coloration.

“Sorry, guys.”  She hadn't brought anything, but she watched them until they grew discouraged and returned to their daily lives feeding among the lily stems.  And as she watched them, she listened to the almost silent footsteps in the garden behind her.

To ordinary ears, they would probably be completely inaudible; her hearing, however, was so acute that sometimes even ordinary levels of sound – such as that in the Mess aboard _Enterprise_ at a busy period – were quite uncomfortable.

Well. Time to give the furtive observer something to look at.

Arranging the diaphanous folds of her gown precisely the way she intended to, she languidly lowered herself on to the marble.  Then, with a yawn, she rolled over on to her back.

_Yeah._   _Have a good look, J’zakthi.  It’s all you’re going to get if I can help it._

She wasn't unduly shy about her body.  She’d gone topless before now, in places where such behavior was accepted.  Nevertheless, it took a deeply-drawn breath before she could nerve herself to arch her spine and stretch her arms above her head, displaying herself like some piece of fabulously costly merchandise being shown off to a potential buyer.

“The hieth’a is truly beautiful.”

She turned her head slowly, with a look that promised mortal sin.  The queen’s women had applied make-up that accentuated the darkness of her eyes, the redness of her mouth.  They’d washed and perfumed her.  She smelt like the scented darkness of the Orient, in this secret world of flowers and running water, and this man desired her.

For a moment – just for one moment of insanity – she desired him back.  Wanted his hands on her body, his mouth on it.  Wanted to feel his weight, his strength, his lust.  She opened her eyes fully and his darkness drank her.

Then she remembered the ambassador’s terrified stare, and the smooth ruthlessness with which the obsidian blade had been slipped beneath his jaw.  She veiled her eyes, turning them instead to watch the flight of a flock of birds whose white feathers were rosy in the sunset, though the treacherous hormones still coursed through her body whether she would or no.

“So others have said,” she replied sweetly.

He’d been standing in the shadow of some kind of weeping palm, but now he came forward.  He stopped perhaps three paces away, and she could feel his gaze travel over her as though it were something tangible – an intensification, perhaps, of the heat of the air that lay against her skin like a dry blanket.

“Such beauty deserves more than the attentions of half a man,” he said at last, in a low voice.

“Ah, but _what_ a half.” Hoshi sighed languorously, arching her body again.  “He makes no demands on a woman.  He is all pleasure.  Even the Queen …”

“No woman has known what pleasure is until she feels the demands of a man to know her utterly.”

“But then, it is not yet the Feast of Tides.  Whatever the hieth’a may think _or_ feel, she cannot act upon it.”  She licked her lips lightly.  “Then, she must decide.  One bed or the other.” 

As if on impulse, she propped herself up on one elbow so that she was half turned towards him, maximizing the effect.  “The zarh must know that women talk of these things.  It is common knowledge that the zarh Hezafer is also most skilled in the arts of love...”  Inside she was thinking, _Where_ is _the slimy asshole?  Vaharaish said she’d make sure he knew…_

He was far too much in control of himself for his expression to change, but nevertheless she saw the faint tightening of the muscles around his mouth. 

“It is common knowledge also that the zarh Hezafer seeks his own glory rather than the welfare of the kingdom.”

“Ah.  The welfare of the kingdom.”  She rolled back again, studying the sky.  “The hieth’a had thought she and the zarh were discussing love.”

“The hieth’a may be sure that if she makes the right choice she will have her fill of the pleasures of love.  J’zakthi also knows how to pleasure a woman’s body again and again.”  His voice had dropped again and become sensual, and despite everything another frisson shot through her.  “The hieth’a has power.  It is her choice whether she will become a tool or a partner.  In her heart she knows this.” 

“She knows that promises of power are easily made.  Maybe she thinks that one man may promise as much as another, and have as little thought of delivering.  Maybe in the end there will be nothing for her but the pleasures of the flesh.” 

There was a small pause.

“The zarh had not thought that his word was so commonly called into question.”

Now that was weird.  Although the voices weren't really so much alike, just for a second there had been that resonance, that … similarity of feeling.  As though the resemblance was more than just skin deep or perception deep or whatever-this-was deep; almost as though this guy valued his given word as much as one other of her acquaintance did.

It would be fatally easy to let herself fall into believing, even trusting him.  But although he’d put aside the long ceremonial robes and was now in only a long black kilt and sash that showed off a tattooed and surprisingly toned body, he was still wearing the obsidian knife.  And he was not Malcolm Reed.

More importantly still, however, Hezafer still hadn't shown his ugly face.  She’d been counting on having them both here, so that she could play one off against the other.  It was almost impossible to believe that he would leave the field clear for his rival to press his claims if he could be present to counter them …

… unless he had other, more important fish to fry.

A growing anxiety churned in her stomach, but she kept her smile resolutely pinned to her face.

“The zarh would surely not wish the hieth’a to act without due consideration.”

“Then the zarh feels it only fair that the hieth’a should have all the facts at her command before she makes her decision.”

She should have expected it, but she hadn't.  He’d hardly finished speaking before he was on top of her, pinning her down.  His mouth was firm but gentle enough; one hand had trapped her wrists, but the other explored her slowly, in a way that left no doubt there were _vast_ differences between him and Lieutenant Reed.

If things had been different…

She jerked her head aside.  “The hieth’a would return to the Queen’s Rooms _now,_ ” she said, breathing hard.  Praying that Travis was finished, and would be waiting for her there.

Without a word he rolled off her and came lightly to his feet.  “That is what the hieth’a should understand is being a partner rather than merely a tool for a man’s pleasure.”  And with the now familiar slight inclination of his head, he turned on his heel and walked away.

=/\=

It was fortunate that the garden which the Queen had suggested as suitable for the decoy maneuver was quite close to her rooms.  Hoshi had been able to take note of the way, which turned out to be fortunate, as no-one was waiting when she went back indoors after taking a few moments to compose herself – it was hardly appropriate for a woman of her supposed standing to be seen fluttering around the place like a scared chicken just because she’d been kissed.

She wasn't sure she’d been anything like as successful in stringing out the ‘conversation’ as she’d hoped, but then she hadn't expected to have only one adversary to deal with.  Nevertheless, she was quite sure that overall, she’d used up rather more than the required half an hour; she’d been outside for some minutes before J’zakthi showed up, and then he’d taken his time observing her before choosing to reveal his presence.  So in that respect at least it had been a success, even if she had been badly rattled by how it had all turned out.

Trying to control her breathing and keep her head high, she picked up the shawl she’d discarded by the door and wrapped it around herself, knotting it on her right shoulder – after all, while she was prepared to show what she needed to when she had to, she wasn't going to parade it around for everybody’s benefit.  Then she went indoors, blinking a little as she exchanged the brightness of the still-radiant sky for the relative dimness of the corridors.

_Down the stairs, second left, right, right._ She recognized items she’d noted as landmarks on the way out, and her heart began to beat a little less rapidly.  It was just a coincidence that Hezafer hadn't shown up.  Maybe he was toadying up to the oo’oacu or something.  After all, the queen couldn't exactly give him orders–

She rounded the last corner and stopped.  There were guards outside the Queen’s Rooms, soldiers in white kilts.

There hadn't been any before.

Maybe it was just a coincidence.

A door opened behind her.

“It will not be necessary for the hieth’a to return to Queen Vaharaish,” said a voice smoothly.  “And before she tries to act in any unwise way, she should reflect on the welfare of her friend the yamyne.  It may well depend on her co-operation.”

Her mouth had gone perfectly dry.  She pivoted. 

Hell, how much she wanted to slap that grin off his face. 

“The hieth’a does not believe that the zarh would dare harm the yamyne in any way.  He is the _Queen’s_ servant.”

“And the Queen has decided that her best safety lies in trusting the zarh Hezafer to best know what should be done to safeguard the kingdom.”  The smirk broadened.  “ _Therefore_ she has decided that she can dispense with the yamyne’s services if need be.”  He withdrew a hand from the fold of his robe where he’d been hiding it, and held it out towards her.  On it lay the silver pendant Travis had been wearing.

“So.  It will be best if the conversation may be held somewhere – private.  Somewhere where the hieth’a can feel able to speak plainly on the subject of what her dear friend might have been doing in the God’s Room while she was taking the air – dressed so very beautifully for the occasion.”  His glance ran down her; it felt as though it left a slimy trail like a slug.  “Of course, the conversation may just as easily take place _without_ that pretty shawl – enchanting though it is.”

Cold despair settled in her stomach, but she kept her chin up somehow; she wouldn't give the slimeball the satisfaction of seeing her anguish, though she was sure he knew it and was relishing her defeat with all the cruelty in his nature.  “The hieth’a will do nothing until she sees for herself that the yamyne is safe.”

His expression switched to one of injured innocence, and he spread his hands in a gesture of expansive munificence.  “The zarh will give his word!”

“The hieth’a will do _nothing_ ,” she repeated, glaring.

All the fake goodwill fell off his face like a mask whose elastic had suddenly broken.  “The hieth’a will learn her place in four days’ time, when she has chosen,” he said through his teeth.  “She will never again say she will do _nothing._ She will do as her master bids her.”

“The zarh should recall the word is _choose_ ,” she spat.

Hezafer shrugged, folding his arms, and the patronizing smile spread back across his mouth, though it got nowhere near his eyes, which were glittering blue malice.  “Certainly the hieth’a will choose.  And if she chooses wrongly, the yamyne will die.  And she will watch it happen. The whole _city_ will watch it happen.  Hezafer can promise her that it will take days.”

If she’d had a weapon in her hands she’d have used it then, and damn the consequences.  But she was unarmed, and he held all the aces.

“The yamyne,” she said defiantly.  “The hieth’a must see the yamyne.  And then she will talk."


	23. Chapter 23

“What the hell…”

Trying to raise his head had been a bad move, Travis decided.  There was already a serious pain in the back of it, but movement made his senses swim.  Sensibly he left his head where it was for a moment while he tried to reassemble what he could of his senses.

Those three words seemed to be a staple of waking up around here, but this time they were really appropriate.

He was lying in what seemed to be some kind of large store-room; all around him there were racks of pottery jars of all shapes and sizes, neatly labeled and arranged and stacked to make the best use of the available space.   Presumably this was where some of the palace’s food stocks were kept, for the air was thick with spicy smells that added to his faint nausea.  A tiny window high in one wall let in just enough light to see by – the fluttering yellow tone of it suggested that some kind of lamp was fixed to a wall nearby – but that was all.

Very shortly he discovered that his hands were tied behind his back, and a rope connected them to his ankles, which were also so tightly bound that they were starting to grow numb.  He was lying on what felt like an empty grain sack.

Almost in the same moment he remembered what had happened, and groaned again.  That bastard Hezafer had gotten wind of the plan somehow, or else he’d just had the devil’s own luck.  The queen had referred to the fact that there were ears everywhere in the Palace; presumably one of those sets of ears had heard more than it should, and the mouth associated with it had lost no time in passing on the valuable information, no doubt for a fat reward.

He moved his head again, cautiously, hoping that his faintness might have passed a little.  The world seemed to take slightly less exception to the maneuver this time, and he was just beginning to look around with a view to formulating some kind of plan of escape when he heard the sound of metal scraping on wood at the other side of the door – presumably a heavy latch was being shifted.

Best to play dead till he found out what was going on.  He dropped his head back to the floor and shut his eyes.

The door hinges squealed, and light intensified against his eyelids.

Hoshi’s voice, in English:  “You _bastard!_ ”

It was unlikely in the extreme that whoever she was speaking to understood the word, but he almost certainly understood the tone.  Nevertheless, the reply was airily affable – an affability that was about as real as a nine-dollar bill.

Travis heard his fellow-ensign’s quick footsteps approaching, but kept his eyes tightly shut.  He wanted to reassure her he was okay and to tell her not to give the son of a bitch anything he wanted no matter what, but he knew with helpless bitterness that her best chance was to co-operate.  She had to keep herself safe no matter what.  He could only hope she understood that, understood he’d forgive her for anything she had to do.  And in the meantime, if he was thought to be still out for the count nobody would imagine he could be a danger.

Her fingers brushed lightly across his forehead, felt at his skull.  Found what was probably a sizable bump on the back of it, for he heard her indrawn breath of rage and anxiety, and she muttered a string of epithets in what sounded more like Klingon that Yb’oan.  “Travis, are you okay?  Can you hear me?”

He could, of course, but he couldn't admit to that.  He lay still and unresponsive.  Let the enemy think he was still unconscious.  He was sorry it would be a worry for her, but he thought it was their best chance if he could only figure out some way to get out of here.

She stormed back towards the doorway through which the light fell.  By the tone of her voice she was demanding that he should see a doctor, and by that of the reply she was wasting her breath.  Moments later the door hinges squealed again, and the sound of the heavy latch dropping back into place told him that he was alone once more.

He muttered a few words that his mom would certainly not have approved of him knowing, and opened his eyes again.  He _had_ to get out.  The door was secured; the window was his only chance. Trouble was, it was so narrow he had doubts as to whether he’d fit through it, even if he could get free and get up there.  But doubts or not, he was going to give it a try.

There were things up on the shelving that with a bit of effort he’d be able to knock down on to the floor.  They might be breakable, and if he could get one to shatter it might have sharp edges he could somehow use to saw through the ropes. 

For all his innate optimism, he was a level-headed young man.  That sort of thing happened in movies, but the chances of his being able to pull it off in his present plight were remote.  Nevertheless, the most impossible thing of all was his being able to just lie here and tamely accept his fate without even trying.

He was about to make a start on wriggling his way to the nearest shelf – however unlikely it was that he’d achieve anything when he got there – when the door latch rattled again.  Fortunately he’d done no more than press one knee to the floor, preparatory to trying to roll over, and it was the work of a moment to drop back exactly as he’d been, and resume the pretense of still being unconscious.  If Hoshi could just get Hezafer into the cell, close enough for him to make a lunge – maybe he could just knock him off his feet somehow, get her the chance to bash him over the head with something–

His head was at an angle that allowed him to just peep through the narrowest crack of his eyelids as the door opened for the second time.  However, it wasn't Hoshi that came in: it was a young boy, and the kid certainly hadn't expected to see him there, because he came to a halt as though he’d run into a glass wall.

There was a guard behind him, carrying a lighted torch, and the guy growled an order that the kid clearly didn't dare disobey.  Pale-faced, he edged his way past the prone prisoner and went to one of the shelves, from which he removed a covered dish.  As he left the room with it, he looked back again.

His face was familiar, and he was directly in the guard’s way, obscuring his line of sight to the man on the floor.  Travis took the risk.  He opened his eyes fully for just a second, and though he didn't dare speak – even if he’d known a word of the language – he sent the kid a look that held all the pleading he could put into it.

The huge black eyes stared back at him for a moment, and then dipped.  Without a word he left the room, and the guard pulled the door shut and secured it.  Without the flickering light of the torch’s flames, the room was suddenly very dark.

Travis lifted his head again.  Futile, to hope that a child of that age – what, eight or nine? – would have the guts to do anything by way of pulling off a rescue.  At any rate, he mustn't think of it.  He had to find his own way out of this, and the first thing he had to do was get himself untied, if that was physically possible.  He had to find something that he could reach and break, to provide himself a sharp edge he could use on these damned ropes.

How he was going to do it, he didn't know.  But he had no choice.

When you have to do a thing, you just find out how.

Whatever it takes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed it, please leave a review! ... pretty please?


	24. Chapter 24

“We can’t just sit here in this bloody place just _waiting_ , for God’s sake!”

Trip sighed.  He was getting kind of tired watching Malcolm pace like a caged tiger.  “There isn’t a whole lot else we _can_ do,” he said patiently, for what seemed like the twentieth time.  “We got lucky and found them on the first settin’.  We don’t know what the situation is, or what those damned buttons really _do_ if they’re pushed any further.  If we move anything, we may do more harm than good.”

“They’re in danger.  You heard him – they’re in serious danger!”

“An’ he said he’d get back to us.”

“But what if he _can’t?_ ”

“What if he _can_ – and us playin’ about with that thing means we put them in _worse_ danger?”

They’d gone over and over this argument.  It seemed likely that they’d go over and over it a few more times at least before Malcolm accepted the logic of it.

Well – Trip revised that – he probably did see the logic of it.  It was just that forced inactivity when one or more of his charges were in danger was unbearable to him.  Not that he himself was all that keen on it either, but then the safety of the crew wasn't his primary responsibility, above and beyond all else.  And if he’d learned anything during their service together aboard _Enterprise_ , it was that Malcolm Reed took his responsibilities in that respect very, _very_ seriously.

The tactical officer came to a halt in front of the ‘schematics panel’ and fixed a famished stare on it yet again.  “Look.  These icons, whatever they are – they _repeat_ in a mirror sequence on either side of the centre.  Surely that must mean that whatever you cause by pressing a button east, you undo by pressing it west.”

“Or you do it in a different way and then you don’t know the hell where you are.”  He could see where this was going, and Malcolm wasn't the only one who had a responsibility of care.

A hard exhalation.  “I think each of these icons is some kind of stage. There must be grooves under each of these buttons, and it can move along each axis underneath them. So far, and then a little further, and a little further still.”

“How could you go back in stages?”

“Well, _I_ don’t know,” Reed replied irritably; he was obviously trying to think the thing through, talking aloud as he did so.  “Perhaps what changes is the experience.  Perhaps on setting one you can only observe, and setting two actually _takes_ you there…”  He trailed off.

Trip opened his mouth to comment – somewhat acerbically – and paused.  Actually, that theory sort of made sense.  Insofar as _any_ of this made sense, and the deeper they got into it the more sympathy he found himself in with the Vulcans who wouldn't have it at any price.

If you said – for the sake of argument – that twelve of the sixteen internal panels represented movements of each one of three of the buttons, each capable of three stages of movement from center on four axes at ninety-degree angles to each other, then what was displayed on the wall could be said to support that theory.  The other four panels were the ones which contained the information he’d thought resembled co-ordinates, and if this was indeed some kind of time-travel device, it would indeed have to be able to be programmed with some way to allow you to go where you wanted and come back again.  At a guess, the text all around the ‘co-ordinates’ was some kind of instruction or explanation, because this sort of thing must be incredibly complex, not to mention incredibly dangerous.  It must come with a list of prohibitions longer than Starfleet’s regulations, because if you went into the past and changed something vital you could effectively change the future – and even small changes can have huge consequences.  So at a guess it wouldn't be the sort of thing you’d do lightly.

“I suppose it may be something like that,” he said cautiously.  “But we don’t have any means of testin’ it.”

Malcolm gave him an ‘I can’t believe you actually said that’ look.

“Fine!  I can just imagine the cap’n’s face when I go back up to _Enterprise_ and tell him I've gone and lost his tactical officer as well as the helmsman and the comms officer!”

“There’s no reason why you need to _lose_ me, Commander.  If you’ll stay out of range and operate the ‘transporter’, I’m volunteering to be the guinea pig.  Two seconds, using one of the other buttons so we don’t interfere with whatever’s going on with Travis and Hoshi.  Just give it two seconds and then push the button back to the middle.  If nothing happens, push it in the opposite direction.  Theoretically, that should bring me back.”

“Yeah.  ‘Theoretically’.  But if ‘theoretically’ doesn't work, you’re not ‘theoretically’ lost.  You’re _literally_ lost, and I won’t have a damned idea what to do about it!” 

“Right.  Let’s try a test first.”  Reed tugged his shirt over his head.  “We’ll try this.  It must work on fabric, because our people’s uniforms went as well.  We’ll try making it vanish and bringing it back.  If it doesn't work, all that’ll happen is that I get a bollocking from the Quartermaster.”

“An’ if it does work, someone somewhere gets a brief but interestin’ vision,” said Trip with a grin.  “‘Give ear to me, Brethren, I have seen the Shirt of the Gods!’  Might start a whole new religion.”

“The Shirtists,” Malcolm grinned back as he went to drop the garment into the danger zone.  “They wouldn't have much by way of articles of belief.  That said, they’d probably end up subdividing into long-sleevists and short-sleevists and persecuting each other.”

“So that’s what happened to all the people around here.  Your shirt got ‘em all killed.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever put it on again if we get it back.  It’ll feel like sacrilege.”

“It’ll feel like a damn miracle if this works at all.”

“You’re sure your name isn't Thomas?”  The Brit picked up the ball and studied it.  “So, which button do we try?”

“Seems to me like any one of em’s as good as another, seein’s we don’t have a clue about what _any_ of ‘em do.”  Trip’s thumb hovered over the second and fourth buttons; the third was the one which had allowed them to contact Travis, so they’d be leaving that severely alone.  “We’ll concentrate on the directions that switch that one dome on, ‘cause we know it works.  Okay.  This one.  Three o’clock, position one for two seconds.”

He pressed the fourth button, which shifted sideways with an audible click.

Nothing happened.

If their understanding of the panel was correct, each button could move in three stages on each axis.  Since the first one apparently had no effect, he pushed it to the second.

Still nothing.

“Try the third,” whispered Malcolm.

There was a slight sheen of perspiration on Trip’s palm.  He wiped it on his pants leg.  “Here goes.”

The button gave some resistance when he pressed it further.  He’d just decided that it wasn't going to move at all when it suddenly shifted.

And – just like that – the shirt was gone.

“Bring it back, before we start a religious movement!”

“You just don’t want the Quartermaster complainin’ to the cap’n that you've lost it.”  _Click-click-click._ The button was back at center position once more. 

He was watching this time, rather than concentrating on the button.  He saw the weird effect that Malcolm had tried to describe from the time Hoshi and Travis had vanished: the air seemed to open as if cut with a knife, and suddenly the shirt was there again.  On the ‘outward’ journey, it must have sucked in whatever was directly in front of the machine before it closed again as neatly as if nothing had ever happened.

With understandable wariness, the owner of the magical shirt went to collect his property.  He opened it and shook it out, but there was nothing out of the ordinary or even different about it, except that it had garnered a little dust from being on the floor.

“No incense or flower petals, I think we got away with it,” he said, retreating from the danger area with admirable promptitude.  “Well, at least we know it works.”

“So now I guess you want to try it yourself.”

“Actually, no, I don’t.  But I think it’s my duty to, whether I want to or not.”  Malcolm pulled the shirt back on – presumably he felt that if he was going to be an apparition he ought to be a well-dressed one.  “The question does remain what the first two stages do; they must do _something._ I suppose we ought to try those first, before proceeding to the third.”

“You’re talkin’ sense there, Loo-tenant.”  Insofar as any of this was sense at all – and Trip had the sinking sensation that Jon wouldn’t be of the opinion that it was.  Strictly speaking, as the senior officer he himself should be taking the risk, rather than sending his junior into danger; but he knew perfectly well what the response would be if he voiced that particular idea.  Malcolm was the ship’s weapons expert, trained in self-defense and tactical maneuvers.  If either of them were to stand a chance in whatever dangerous situation Hoshi and Travis were in, he was the better call by a long shot.

“You’ll take your phase pistol?” he said a little weakly as the Englishman walked back into the danger zone.

“I hardly think that would be appropriate.  Just in case I don’t make it back – contaminating a culture, and all that.”  There was somewhat bitter irony in the glance backwards.  Considering he’d so narrowly escaped death by hanging in order to prevent that very thing a while ago, Reed was fully aware of how strongly the captain felt that this particular rule should be followed. Still, he contrived another grin: “A supernatural shirt would be exciting enough.  Just think of the complications a supernatural weapon could cause.”

“Don’t even wanna go there.”

Once again there was the question of which button to press.  Still, they’d already established that the fourth one did _something_ , had an effect which was reversible and harmless – at least to a shirt – so it was probably logical to go with that one.  “I’ll go to stage one and then reverse and we’ll check you out.”

“Agreed.”

Apprehension made Trip’s stomach feel hollow as he began applying pressure to the button.  It didn't take much to propel it through the first and second stages.  It hadn't had any visible effect on the shirt in either of them, but it must have been doing something.  Unless it was just warming up.

_Click._

Malcolm had been standing facing the machine, head up and eyes wide and wary.  He didn't move.  Nor did he react when Trip called him.

That wasn't good. 

_Click._ Back to neutral – which presumably represented ‘home’.  “Malcolm?”

Reed blinked, and shook his head.  He looked dazed. “Good Lord.”

“Are you okay?  What happened?”  Trip went to him hurriedly, and felt at his head and chest to make sure nothing had disappeared or changed in any way.

“What happened … I don’t know.  I wouldn't know how to explain it.  I just … just wasn't _here_ any more.  I was somewhere else, watching something… bloody hell.”  His face had gone pale; there was no humor in it now.  “I don’t know what it was, whether it was something from my subconscious or something that actually happened. I – it couldn't be from this planet’s past. I don’t think so, at any rate. Or maybe….”

This soft, distressed, almost random response was so unlike the disciplined report the tactical officer would ordinarily have given that Trip’s heart lurched.  “Lieutenant, report!” he barked.

Malcolm blinked again, swayed, and seemed to come back to himself.  “Sir.  I saw an attack – an airborne attack.  Energy weapons.  They were being deployed against a city – a primitive city, built of brick buildings inside stone walls.  From what I saw, there was no effective resistance.  It was a massacre.”

Probably they were both thinking of the deserted world that surrounded Boa’an’a.

“Did you recognize any of the attackin’ ships?” asked Trip more mildly.

“No, sir.”  The lieutenant shook his head.  “They were small and moved very fast, were incredibly maneuverable.  But they didn't look like anything we've ever encountered.  The machine must have been brought outside.  People were all around – I think they were praying to it for help.”  His mouth twisted.

“Hell,” muttered the American.  Then – the question hardly needed asking, because it would surely have been the first thing on Malcolm’s mind:  “You didn't see Travis or Hoshi?”

“No.”  He rubbed his mouth with one hand; it was shaking slightly.  “But if that’s where they are, they’re in _terrible_ danger.  And if it’s possible, I have to go there and look for them.  I could – I don’t think I was in my own body, but maybe if we tried the second setting – that might allow me to operate the one I was in rather than simply observe through it.”

“That, _Loo-tenant_ , is down to the Captain’s decision.  If it’s as bad as that.”  Trip held up his hand to halt the inevitable protest.  “If you saw something that’s in the past, it’s already happened.  If you rescued them, it happened no matter when you went back.  If you didn't, it won’t make a blind bit of difference us reportin’ back to _Enterprise_ and puttin’ Jon in the picture first.”

“Trip, he’ll never let us come back down again.  We’ll be bloody lucky if he doesn't throw both of us in the Brig and weld the door locks!”

“That’s the chance we have to take, Malcolm.  If you’re goin’ into a planetary Armageddon, that’s out of my league.”  He paused.  “And the truth is, we don’t actually know whether that button’s set to where they _are._ It may be takin’ you somewhere else altogether; a different part of the time line, maybe _._ ”

Reed pondered, biting his lip.  “The other two buttons.  Different stages of time.”

“That’s right.”  His thumb ran lightly over the top of them.  Second and third.  Who knew what horrors they led to?

The sigh was enough to set the dust-motes in the lamplight swirling.  “Right.  Let’s go back to Number Three again.  Maybe if I put myself in range I can get a look into the place, at least see what’s going on, if anyone’s available for me to transport into. Failing that, there’s the next two settings we can try….”

“Three.  Lucky for some.”  He retreated to the side of the machine.  Now he knew what sort of things this device was capable of doing, the unease in his stomach had become a hard knot of apprehension; but at least this way, it was only showing, not actually transporting.  No matter what Malcolm saw this time, he wouldn't be a part of it.

Not _yet_ ….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've enjoyed it, please leave a review!


	25. Chapter 25

Service in the Royal Palace was an accepted part of growing up for all the sprigs of the nobility in Fer-agor-am’h.

It was never without its dangers, and never without its opportunities.  Through the vicissitudes of daily life and a whole network of circumstance, the children evolved a whole hierarchy of their own, which operated entirely independently of that of the adult world, for all that it was circumscribed by it.  A faithful mirror of the larger, its inhabitants ran the spectrum of intelligence and integrity, from Hoeb who (although he was the son of the oo’oacu’s vizier) was hardly bright enough to find his own backside with his hand, to Aguf who, despite being the son of an illiterate officer in the Moons Division, had taught himself to read better than the average lord who had to rely on scribes to carry out their correspondence.

Gef’s father Egefa was notable for his family rather than any achievements of his own.  Other boys whose fathers had gone on campaign for the oo’oacu or who had performed some equally praiseworthy deed worthy to be engraved on the Walls of Remembering tended to look down on both of them; to work quietly every day in the Halls of Justice hearing cases too unimportant to be brought before the High Court or even the oo’oacu himself was hardly the stuff of glory.  Nevertheless, the family’s loyal service to the Crown was generations old.  If the administering of justice to the lower levels of society was not the stuff of legend, still it could be said that ‘Someone’s got to do it’; and Gef’s father was the Someone, which earned Gef a place among the boys who ran errands for their elders and betters until it was time for them to begin their schooling in preparation for taking their own place in the shark-tank that was the oo’oacu’s palace. 

The almost unceasing demands of his father’s duties meant that the times were very rare when Egefa was able to speak to his son; usually by the time he returned home, the children were in bed.  But now and again Gef would wake to find his father sitting on the edge of the cot, his thin face tired in the wavering lamplight.

“What is the most important thing in the world, my son?” Egefa would ask, when Gef had thrown back the blanket and wrapped his arms around him.

“Justice, Father.”  When he was little he hadn't even understood what the word meant, but he knew saying it made his father happy.  As he grew older he learned that it meant a lot of different things to different people, but Father thought it meant being fair to everybody.  And especially it meant not just accepting when something was wrong, but doing what you could to put it right.

For some time he’d believed that there was something wrong with the eyesight of important people that made them unable to see children.  Eventually he’d realized that it was just because they didn't think children were important enough to take any notice of, and while this was a bit irritating it was also useful because it meant that children got to see and hear all sorts of interesting things.  Naturally it wasn't safe to talk about them, but still, it was interesting, and he was bright enough to add up a lot of the things and work out a great deal about the world that one day he would enter; and he already knew more than a lot of the children his age did.

The queen liked ‘personable’ children to wait on her, and apparently he was considered ‘personable’ (whatever that meant, exactly), so he was quite accustomed to being among those selected to take in the meals she took in her private rooms.  At first he’d been very much overawed but he’d got used to it, mostly because nobody in there ever acted as though he existed at all, so as long as he was quiet and careful and did what he was supposed to do he could get out without any trouble.  Which was mostly what children were supposed to do.

Then – today – the yamyne had _seen_ him.  And not just seen him, but _spoken_ to him, even though he talked in some strange language that apparently nobody could understand.  And not even just _spoken_ to him, but _given_ him something – food that was baked specially for the Queen’s table, that not even nobles were supposed to have a taste of.  And it had tasted absolutely wonderful, even if in the scramble afterwards he’d had one piece stolen from him and had to make do with a rather smaller piece that nobody grabbed before he got it into his mouth.

He’d seen the yamyne before, of course.  Some of the older boys called him nasty things when they were sure grown-ups couldn't hear; used bad words, though Gef often got the impression that they were secretly a bit envious of him for some reason.  But though never before had the exotic-looking dark-skinned man taken any more notice of him than any other adult did, today had been different.  And more importantly than the notice, more than the speech, even more than the cakes, he had _smiled._ A smile that said ‘I like you!’, and which lit up his whole face so that Gef had wanted to burst with joy just looking at it.

So when, much later, he’d gone into the store-room to fetch the dried fruit for the baker and found the yamyne bound hand and foot there, he’d felt as though the great shining bubble of delight inside him had collapsed, leaving him shocked and dismayed and certain that some terrible mistake must have been made.  How could the queen’s servant be tied up and hidden away?  What could he possibly have done wrong?  Had the queen been upset about the cakes?

Duty was duty; Gef had delivered the fruit to the bakery and pretended that he had some other important errand to run away for before the baker could think of anything else he needed.  But as he scampered away his mind was full of the picture of the yamyne helpless on the store-room floor, and he hid himself away in a quiet corner to sit and think what might have happened, and what could possibly be done to mend matters.

Cudgel his mind as he would, however, he could imagine no way in which he could find out what the yamyne had done, or any way to help him.  The thought that the man might be left there to die was so appalling that tears presently started to leak down his face, although he tried valiantly to scrub them away.

He was so preoccupied with his grief and fear that he didn't notice that someone had stopped a few feet away and was watching him silently.  When at last he did become aware that he was not alone, and realized the identity of the watcher, he shrank into his corner with a croak of terror. 

All of the boys (and probably the girls, only worse, because girls were scared of _everything_ ) were terrified of the zarhs.  They walked with the gods.  When you ran errands that brought you near them, you made sure you were swift and silent, and when your task was done you fled.  Sometimes a boy was chosen for service with them, and when that happened all the other boys went silent or offered rough sympathy, as though the luckless one were already doomed to be cast into the eternal darkness of Karoh where scorpions tormented the souls of the dead.  Only last year, Mur had been chosen to serve the Zarh Hezafer, and on the rare occasions afterwards that he had been seen by those who had once been his fellows, his eyes had been empty, as though no-one at all had been inside him looking out. 

Mur had not been seen for many moon-turns.  Nobody asked what had become of him.  Nobody wanted to know.

But if the Zarh Hezafer was terrifying, the Zarh J’zakthi was worse.  He served the Dead God, and sometimes it seemed that the dead walked with him.  Even nobles dreaded him.  And yet he was quiet and calm, never raising his voice or his hand; he never needed to. 

And now he had not merely _seen_ Gef, he had _noticed_ him.  And was _watching_ him, with those dark eyes that stared into the face of the Dead God and saw the Dead God staring back.

The slight motion with one hand was an order that Gef would not have dreamed of disobeying, however terrified he was.  The boy scrambled to his feet, frantically trying to wipe his face clean and expecting at any moment an order for him to be taken to the uppermost point of the Palace walls and thrown from it.

It would be absolutely inappropriate for him to speak unless spoken to.  So he stood in front of the zarh and waited, staring mutely ahead of him; a position which enabled him to get an excellent view of the way that tiny flakes had been chipped off the long, leaf-shaped obsidian blade to give it a perfect cutting edge from every side.  He could imagine it slipping between his ribs and the scorpions coming for his soul because he had offended the zarh who had the right to stand upright before the oo’oacu himself.  He was too paralyzed with fear to stop noticing the way the light shifted on the glassy surface in time to the rise and fall of the chest beneath it.

After a pause during which it felt as though the sun had been able to journey to the Underworld and back again several times, the zarh turned away silently.  The hand gestured.  Swallowing, Gef followed obediently, biting his lip to try to stop himself from starting to cry again, this time with fear as he was being taken away to be fed to the scorpions, and his little sister Mire would not have anyone to tell her stories at bedtime.  Maybe even his mother and father would never know what had become of him.

His years of service around the Palace had taught him well enough where the Great Ones resided.  He recognized the zarh’s personal rooms, and a different and more sinister fear seized him.  Sometimes the older children deigned to pass on snippets of their worldly knowledge to their juniors, and although he’d had some trouble in absorbing some of the concepts, he’d eventually managed to fit most of it into his world-view.  True, if that was the zarh’s intention, it would be better than being thrown from the walls or fed to scorpions; but maybe that was what Mur had thought, and Gef couldn't help but feel that even being thrown from the walls would be better than having things done to his body that would leave _him_ walking around with no-one left inside it to look out….

His legs were so wobbly by now that it was all he could do to follow the zarh inside.  As the door closed behind him he bit his lip harder than ever and tried to feel brave, but he couldn't do a very good job of it because after all, he was only eight, and although he told anyone who asked that he was ‘nearly nine’, the ‘nearly’ part didn't seem to be making much of a difference.

He would have been less surprised if the room had been filled with ravening demons ready to pounce on him at a word, but in actual fact it was one of the simplest he had ever been in.  There was a table, and a cabinet against the wall that was filled with scrolls, and a couch against the far wall that he blinked at a little apprehensively, but apart from that it was empty.  Even the whitewashed walls were bare of ornament, save for the niches where the fine wax lamps had been lit.

His darkest fears seemed only confirmed, however, when the zarh pointed to the couch.  “Sit.”

He had no option.  He got himself across to the couch and sat on the very edge of it, trying to stop his knees from trembling.

The zarh walked to the table.  There was a fine glass flask on it filled with wine, and he poured some into a cup and drank a single mouthful of it before bringing it across to the couch.  “Drink.”

Gef looked from him to the cup and back again.  He had never touched a cup of such beautiful workmanship before, and only on special occasions had he been permitted a very little wine, well watered down, with his family meal.  He was afraid he would drop the cup and break it, or that the wine would make him say something he ought not, because he knew that it did that to adults sometimes.

Nevertheless, he knew that he couldn't disobey the zarh.  So he took the cup, holding it very carefully in both hands, and sipped at the contents.  The liquid was dark red, like blood, and for a moment he actually thought it might _be_ blood, which wouldn't really have surprised him, but it wasn't, and although he didn't really like the taste he swallowed it obediently.  And after a moment he felt a bit better, even if his heart was still pounding in his chest so hard that he was afraid the zarh would hear it and know how scared he was.

He wanted to say ‘Thank you’, because Father had taught him that manners were important, but he was too frightened to say anything, and that made him even more frightened because the zarh was so very powerful and he might think that Father hadn't taught his son the proper way to behave.  And if the zarh thought that, there was no saying what he might cause to have done to Father and even to the whole family.

That thought finally loosened his tongue.  “His servant thanks the zarh,” he whispered, handing back the cup.

The zarh took it from him and seemed about to speak, but then turned around and took it back to the table.  It was set back beside the flask with the lightest of clicks, and then the zarh turned around and came back to the couch.

Gef’s heart seemed about to burst out of his throat.  _Now it would happen…._

But instead of pouncing on him, the zarh squatted down in front of him and began staring at him.  And he couldn't stop himself from staring back into those mesmerizing eyes.

It was like looking into a deep well.  At first there was light, but soon the darkness intensified and began drawing him in, faster and faster and deeper and deeper, until he couldn't have got out if he’d tried.  And when the voice spoke, in a way he’d never experienced before and couldn't understand, he had no choice but to answer, though it felt as though he was talking in his sleep.

_What did you see?_

“The yamyne.”  A sob rose in his throat.  “He was tied up.  They tied him up and left him in a store-room.”

_Who did?_

“I don’t know.”  But a memory surfaced, of the guard outside the room: he’d had a white sash.  “I think – I think–”

_You must tell me everything._

Even in this pass, he couldn't say the name.  “I think it was the – the other zarh.”

_Why would he do such a thing?_

“I don’t know! – I don’t _know!_   The Queen – he gave us cake – maybe she was angry and told someone–”

_Why did the yamyne give you food?_

Gef almost wailed.  “I don’t know!  He looked at me – and he smiled – and then he gave me the cake.  I didn't eat much of it.  I didn't know it was wrong…”

_If you were given it, you were right to eat it.  Do not be afraid.  You cannot think when you are afraid._

It was easier to say than to achieve.  And as for being able to think, that was almost out of the question.

_Did you see the hieth’a?_

He shook his head vigorously.  “No.  There was no-one else.”

_Had the yamyne been hurt?_

The child considered.  “I – I think he might have been.  He was pretending to be asleep when I went in.  He only opened his eyes when the guard couldn't see him.”

_Did he speak to you?_

“No.”  That, at least, he could say firmly.  “I don’t think he wanted the guard to know he was awake.”

_But you saw no injuries._

“There wasn't any blood.”  A little doubtfully.  “Not that I saw.  But I couldn't look at him very much, of course. The guard wouldn't have liked it.”

_Tell me what else._

“I – I’m sorry?”

_There is something else.  You know and do not know that you know._

“No, I–”

_Tell me what you saw._

“There wasn't anything–”

_Tell me about the hieth’a._

“The – the hieth’a?” He gulped.  “Well – she was in the Queen’s rooms, and – and we took the food in, and – the girls went to anoint her feet, and – and she didn't like it.  Well, she did. Sort of.  She laughed a lot.”

_She did not like having her feet anointed?_

Gef swallowed.  He wasn't at all sure that using the word ‘ticklish’ in the same sentence as ‘hieth’a’ wasn't heresy.  “It made her laugh and, and wriggle about a lot, like my little sister does when I play with her toes.”

There was a silence.  In the midst of it, Gef found himself floating back to the surface, almost as though he had indeed been under the water of the well and only now found himself released to return to the light and air.  Suddenly he came completely back to himself and keeled over backwards with a gasp, his lungs inflating as though they’d been deprived of breath and suddenly he could breathe again.

The zarh was still kneeling in front of him, but now the dark eyes were not staring at him but through him, and beneath the black paint on his forehead there was a frown.

“Something is wrong,” he said softly, with certainty, and now he was speaking with his normal voice.  “The zarh must find the hieth’a and make her tell him the truth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've enjoyed this, please leave a review!


	26. Chapter 26

Travis’s efforts so far had not been very successful.

By means of some herculean bodily heaves and contortions he’d managed to get himself over to the nearest rack of shelving, and had even managed to knock over a tall jug on the very lowest level of it.  He’d hoped that if he could control its fall a little it might just break in half or something, without making too much noise.  However, with his feet roped together he hadn't been able to, and it had shattered on impact with the floor, leaving him in a spreading pool of oil that smelt as though it had come from some kind of fish.  He wouldn't have cared about that, but the pottery must have been very brittle; it had burst into hundreds of fragments, and struggle as he might he couldn't find one big enough to use as a knife, though the cuts in his fingers from his attempts to make one of the smaller ones serve was testament to the fact that they were sharp enough.  Worse still, his efforts were making his wrists numb, and every movement was growing more awkward and poorly coordinated.  He was only thankful that the door was thick and well fitted, so nobody outside had heard the crash and come to investigate.

He was feeling desperately around in the pool of oil for another piece of pottery when the sound of the door latch announced that he was to have another visitor.

There was no way he could pretend now that he hadn't regained consciousness.  Heedless of the pain of yet another edge cutting into his palm, he grabbed the only shard he could feel and clutched it.  As weapons went it was pathetic, but just at that moment it gave him a morsel of courage of which he felt badly in need.

The door opened and bright light flooded into the room again, but his dazzled eyes made out that the shape at the core of it wore black.

_Heck, like I need_ this _guy!_ Travis almost groaned aloud.  It could have been worse – it could have been the other one – but it was more likely that J’zakthi had come along to carry out some kind of interrogation, in the belief that a little torture might help his victim ‘remember’ how to speak Yb’oan.  When the truth was, he didn't even know enough to let him plead for help for Hoshi.  And he didn't want to think about what could have happened to her by now.

The zarh strode forward, slipping the stone knife from around his neck.  But instead of placing it to Travis’s neck, he bent and began sawing it through the ropes holding him prisoner.

_What–?_

The door opened again, and a smaller figure slipped through.  The kid’s expression was intensely anxious, but as soon as he saw the prisoner was okay, a smile lit up his entire small face like the sun breaking through on a cloudy day.

“Hey, how’re you doing?” The relief as Travis’s arms fell free was almost indescribable, but he knew to whom he owed his rescue, however improbable it was that J’zakthi was his rescuer.  Evidently the tone bridged the linguistics gap between planets and cultures, for if it was possible the kid’s beam grew even wider as the helmsman grinned in return.

But that debt paid, he turned to the zarh, desperate to communicate even though they spoke different languages.  “Hoshi,” he said, grabbing the man’s arm.  “Hoshi.  The hieth’a.  Hezafer took her.”

The dark gaze glittered with understanding.  As soon as the ropes binding the prisoner’s feet together were cut, the zarh slipped a hand under Travis’s shoulder and began helping him up, and the boy hurried to his other side and did the same.  Ankles too long compressed threatened to give way, but the helmsman thought of Hoshi and kept himself upright somehow, fighting down the waves of cramp in his legs as well as the agonizing onslaught of what felt like boiling pins and needles all down his arms.

He should have been expecting the body outside the door, but somehow he wasn't.   He swallowed nausea as the zarh swept him indifferently past it.  Of course, that’s how his rescuers had gotten in.  He glanced at the kid, whose face seemed far too unmoved for one of his years seeing violent death at close quarters.  “He shouldn't be here.”

The youngster’s grin flashed again at his being noticed.  Of course, he couldn't understand the words.

The zarh looked sideways at him consideringly as the three of them moved down one corridor after another, all lit by lamps hanging on brackets attached to the walls.  At first Travis could hardly hobble, even with his left arm hitched over his rescuer’s shoulder to help him keep up, but he set his teeth against the pain and drove onward. “ _Kei hi_ ‘yamyne’,” the zarh said suddenly, his stare intensifying.  “ _Kei hi_ ‘hieth’a’.”

“If that means ‘you’re not the yamyne and she’s not the hieth’a, you got it,” answered Travis – shortly, because it was taking all his concentration just then to keep moving.  “But right now she’s in trouble.  Can’t we go any faster?”

It seemed that it was unnecessary; J’zakthi suddenly pulled all three of them to a halt just short of a junction.  He looked down at the boy and murmured something.

It was evidently not unexpected, but the kid hesitated.  His smile wavered up at Travis.

“I don’t want him put in any more danger,” the helmsman breathed, laying a protective hand on the skinny shoulder.

“ _Varq hGef hieth’a fain._ ”

It wasn't difficult to guess what that meant.  The boy’s shoulders went back; his spine straightened.  He was helping to rescue the hieth’a.

With a lump in his throat, Travis watched him walk around the corner.  He felt able to stand and walk unaided now, and took his arm back.  If there was going to be some kind of trouble, he wouldn't want to be a burden to the man beside him.

They waited. 

There was a question asked, in the child’s thin treble voice, and a growled reply.

Another question, this one with a note of unmistakable impertinence.  It was followed almost at once by the sound of a blow.

On its echo, J’zakthi swept around the corner.  Travis was at his heels.

The kid was on the floor, holding a hand to his head, which was bleeding.  He looked up at the advancing zarh, and sobbed something, but although his eyes were filled with tears of pain they were steady, and he gave the smallest nod.

The two white-sashed guards had stiffened warily, but when they saw that J’zakthi’s menace was focused on the boy they relaxed and stepped back, quite willing to allow him to drag the urchin away for whatever dreadful punishment he saw fit.  They even grinned as the child shrank back and tried to scramble away, wailing piteously with terror. Such was the power of the zarh’s presence that they hardly spared a glance for the man behind him.

J’zakthi bent to haul the felon roughly to his feet, but at the last second he whirled aside.  The tip of the razor-sharp blade slid up the belly of the nearest guard, opening it like that of a gutted fish; the unfortunate man staggered back against the wall, clutching at the mass of bloody stuff that began spewing from the split even as his legs buckled. 

Travis flung himself at the other guard.  He had no intention of killing, but the punch he planted into the guy’s solar plexus, followed by a second to the chin as he folded up straight into it, held all the rage he’d had to contain since that slimeball Hezafer had materialized outside the room where the time machine was stored.  A movement beside him told him just in time that J’zakthi was intent on finishing what he’d started, but Travis grabbed hold of the wrist holding the obsidian knife and almost flung it away.  “You don’t need to kill him!” he hissed.  The guard had slumped to the floor, out to the world.

A flare of dark eyes challenged that statement, but after a second the zarh’s gaze was hooded again.  He turned to the door and thrust it open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am a cruel and wicked and sadistic person. But if you like it, please leave a review! ..... Go on, you know you want to!


	27. Chapter 27

“The zarh said that the queen’s plaything is alive, and so he is.  The hieth’a has seen this for herself.”  Hezafer’s tone was almost avuncular.  “And now that she has satisfied herself, she will keep her promise.  Or the guards outside will be called in, and the yamyne will be hurt as much as it takes to persuade her.  This is, of course, a thing Hezafer would rather avoid.”

_Lying bastard._ Hoshi couldn't restrain a shudder as the fingertip trailed up the side of her neck, but she sat still.  All of her training said you didn't give in to a blackmailer, but there wasn't anything else she could do.  Travis’s welfare, probably even his life, depended on her.  She was all he had.  She couldn't let him die.

“Wine?”  The zarh moved to a side table, on which rested a bowl of fruit, two goblets and a stone jug.  He tipped the jug and filled one of the goblets with wine; the other he did not quite fill, but picked up what looked like a scarlet plum out of the bowl and squeezed it in his fist over the goblet.  The juice ran out between his fingers and dripped into the wine.

He wiped his hand carelessly on his robe before shrugging off the garment, letting it fall to the floor as he came back to her, carrying both goblets.  The one containing the fruit juice he handed to her.

She didn't ask the question he was waiting for.  She didn't need him to draw her a diagram.

They were in what she imagined was his private suite of rooms.  Paradoxically, she would have taken some satisfaction in finding them garishly opulent, but in actual fact they were tastefully decorated, the fittings luxurious but not lacking in style. 

It was probably not a coincidence that one of the doors was open, giving a partial view of a bed draped in glimmering, gold-shot linen.  The couch on which she sat was placed accordingly.

“Why does the zarh Hezafer fear the zarh J’zakthi so greatly?” she asked, looking down into the amber liquid.  Bits of the plum’s flesh were floating in it.

He’d sat down on the chair opposite her, evidently preparing to enjoy the preliminaries, but at this he stiffened.  “The zarh fears no-one,” he snapped.

She raised the goblet to her mouth and sipped.  The sweetness of the wine bore a faintly oily aftertaste.  “The zarh Hezafer fears that the hieth’a will choose other than himself,” she observed.  “If this was not so, he would not have felt it necessary to force the hieth’a’s hand.”

Hezafer showed his teeth.  “The zarh has not made his plans only to allow a mere female to spoil them.”  He eyed her.  “The arrangement of the hieth’a’s hair is too formal.  The zarh would see it a little … disarranged.”

The queen’s women had spent much effort on piling it high on her head and securing it with jeweled pins, helping to show off the elegant curve of her neck.  With a shrug, Hoshi pulled out the pins and allowed her hair to fall all anyhow, as though she didn't give a damn.

His gaze traveled to the knot of the shawl.  “And now…” he whispered.  An unpleasant smile curved his mouth as he looked back at her.  “But perhaps the zarh will reserve that pleasure for later.  The first of many.”

“The pleasure will be the zarh’s alone.”

He laughed.  His resemblance to Trip was appalling.  “So that the pleasure is great enough, why should the zarh share it with anyone?  It will be enough that the hieth’a provides it.”

“It is not yet the Feast of Tides,” she said steadily. 

“No.”  He drank from his goblet.  “But doubtless the hieth’a has learned many whore’s tricks from the Queen’s pet plaything.  If she wishes him to live, she will employ them all.  And then – when she has made her choice – she will learn others.  All that the zarh requires, she will do.”

“The queen may miss her plaything.”

A shrug.  “She may easily find another plaything.  It would be less easy to find a man willing to take the oo’oacu’s leavings if some … _accident_ befalls the Son of the Sun.”

Involuntarily Hoshi looked around, appalled.  Hezafer was talking _treason._

“There is no danger.  Those who serve in the zarh’s rooms have their tongues cut out.  If they hear, they cannot tell – even if they dared think of it.”  He smiled, charmingly.  “Whereas the hieth’a’s tongue may stay where it is, for the time being, if she is sensible.  After all, in four days’ time there will be another hieth’a to be reared to interpret the will of the gods, and she will be no more than just another woman in the bed of a man.  Should that man … rise in the world, she may rise with him, even if the position of his queen should be already promised.  So she will be wise to play her whore’s tricks for him with a smile, so that he finds her indispensable.”

_Never in this world or the next._ Her fingers clenched on the goblet.  She’d do what she must to safeguard Travis, but as for making herself ‘indispensable’ to this slimy, self-satisfied son of a bitch, she’d rather hurl herself out of an airlock first.  That, at least, would be quick.

“The zarh speaks as though he thinks it likely that some accident _will_ befall the oo’oacu,” she said lightly, trying to infuse just a suggestion of reluctant interest into her voice.

Hezafer extended his legs in front of him and contemplated his sandaled feet, crossed at the ankles.  “Daily life is full of mishaps, even for the mightiest,” he said blandly.  “The zarh has naturally entreated the gods to safeguard his Lord, but – doubtless for their own good reasons – they do not always answer his prayers.”

This, basically, translated as ‘I've already made arrangements and that poor sap on the throne is a dead man walking and doesn't know it’.  Vaharaish, it seemed, _did_ know it, and had cold-bloodedly backed the horse she thought would emerge the winner.

This deduction was confirmed by his next words.  “The Son of the Sun has sired a child on one of his junior queens – a woman he is, shall we say, ‘taken with’?  There has been much talk that if she delivers a boy, she may step up in the world.”  He smiled.  “A situation that the present wearer of the Queen’s Diadem finds disagreeable.”

“So she sold us out,” said Hoshi flatly.

His fingers fluttered, as though he was pretending to find the bluntness distasteful.  “She has lately been … contemplating a certain offer from her humble servant.  Should the oo’oacu meet with an unfortunate accident, the child will no longer be a problem and she will continue to be the wearer of the Diadem.  And now it seems for some reason that she believes that securing the hieth'a would bring either of the zarhs far more power than they originally believed.  With this power, he and she could … well.  Doubtless the hieth'a knows full well what they could do.”

He took another sip of wine.  “Queen Vaharaish is a woman of rare intelligence.  She will be an asset as my queen.  The hieth'a will also be an asset.  The zarh knows how to use them both to best advantage.  Only one man’s life stands between him and that goal.  And, though the gods avert it! life is full of mishaps.”

One man’s life.  A life that could probably be measured in hours, if not days – depending on how advanced Hezafer’s plans were.  As for J’zakthi… well, he undoubtedly knew that the other zarh was both cunning and ambitious, but would he suspect the queen of being his co-conspirator?  Once Hezafer had the throne and the Queen, his life wouldn't be worth a cent; it would be only a matter of time – probably a protracted and agonizing time – before his flayed hide decorated the new oo’oacu’s footstool.  Doubtless he suspected that something was going on, but it was a matter of proof.  Anyone who knew, couldn't tell.  Anyone who discovered the plot by accident would never get the chance to.  Around here, life was cheap and the zarhs evidently had the power of life and death.  Hoshi found herself thinking longingly of the slim dark-haired zarh who had at least seen her as a human being rather than a plaything, but even if there hadn't been armed guards outside the door there was still Travis to consider.  She was quite sure that Hezafer would cheerfully carry out his threats.  She couldn't let Travis suffer….

“The hieth’a would be wise to bear in mind that her new master is not a fool,” Hezafer added, his voice still smoothly amiable.  “Should any evil befall him, he has given orders regarding the yamyne.  Unpleasant orders, but necessary.  Should she attempt to leave this room alone, the queen’s plaything will die in agony, long before she can stage a rescue.”

Well.  At a guess, she had four days.  Four days, till she had to make that fake ‘choice’ and seal not only J’zakthi’s fate but the oo’oacu’s as well.  It was unlikely that Hezafer would make a move before then; he’d want to be seen to be acting in accordance with tradition, and with due reverence for the gods.  Only when he thought he had her safely buckled down for good would he put the next stage of the plan into effect.

Still, a lot could happen in four days.  And as Hoshi looked at his handsome face, the gloating anticipation naked on it, she swore that if she had anything to do with it something damn well _would_ happen – something that would trash his plans once and for all.

But there were still those four days to be got through.  And perhaps if she could play her loathsome part well enough, she might manage to lull him into a false sense of security.  After all, unless the queen had sent him an extremely detailed account of what they’d told her, he couldn't have any real sense of who she was: not a child of this civilization, ready to knuckle under at the first sign of danger, but a serving Starfleet officer.

_Play for time,_ an English-accented voice whispered in her head.  _Keep him talking._

She took another sip of the wine.  A very small sip, because although the stuff in itself didn't seem to be that potent, there had to be some reason why he’d squeezed that fruit into it.  The chance that it contained anything actually harmful had to be pretty low; he wouldn't want to get rid of her until he’d had his fun.  But it couldn't be mere coincidence that he hadn't had any himself.  And it seemed to her that her pulse had already speeded up a little, and that the room seemed warm.

“The hieth’a had not realized that the zarh was so ambitious,” she cooed.

“The zarh knows no man who would not reach out for a thing he had the power to take.”  He set down his goblet and stretched, his arms out to the sides; he was now wearing only a knee-length white kilt and a gold torc studded with rough-cut white stones, and he looked formidably strong.  Once she was in his grasp, she’d have to keep her wits about her or she’d stand no chance.  She spared a moment to thank her lucky stars that she’d paid attention during self-defense classes on board ship; it looked as though she’d need them more than she’d ever believed she would.

He also looked …

… strangely _attractive._

Hell, now she knew what the fruit did.  And the room had definitely gotten warmer.

“If the hieth’a is to show the zarh what she has learned of the arts of love, she should bathe first,” she said, looking at him coyly over the rim of her own cup.

“She shares his very thought,” he replied, smiling.  “He would take pleasure in watching.  He is sure it will be a revelation.”

_What can’t be cured, must be endured._ Though maybe now it wouldn't be as much of an ordeal as it had seemed earlier.  She might yet live to be grateful for that damned fruit…

“And while she readies herself for him,” Hezafer continued suavely, “she will perhaps explain more fully what the queen meant by the words ‘Not who they seem’.  It was unfortunate that Vaharaish had little time to dictate clearly, but here and now there is all the time in the world.”

Hoshi stiffened, and saw a gleam of cruel amusement in his gaze. 

Everything depended on exactly what and how much the queen had told him.  Had Vaharaish mentioned that they were not only from another time, but from another world?  She’d obviously come to the decision that her best chance lay in betraying them, but how much time had she had to go into details, and (an important consideration, in this world of double-dealing and danger) how much had she trusted the messenger? 

And how far did the zarh believe what she’d said?

The chances were that he believed _something_ – that he wanted the story confirmed, and would interrogate her until she told him the truth.  Or at least (since there was no way she was going to tell him the _real_ truth) a version that was plausible enough to satisfy him.  That in itself would be difficult to come by; it would have to tally with whatever the queen had put in the message, because he’d pounce on any discrepancy like a tiger.

“The zarh has the greatest respect for Queen Vaharaish’s intelligence,” he added, his voice as smooth as pouring cream.  “She is not easily deceived.  Which is one reason why he sees her as an asset as his queen when he mounts the throne.”

“The zarh would be wise not to hold her trustworthiness in the same respect,” Hoshi said coldly.  She’d felt she could trust Vaharaish; the betrayal rankled, even though she now understood the reasoning behind it.  And yet, in a world like this, everything was a gamble and the queen too was a player.  In fairness, she could hardly be blamed for it, when everyone around her was in the game for their very lives.

Hezafer laughed.  He obviously found the thought of trusting anyone positively hilarious.  “He thanks the hieth’a for her advice, but her concern is needless.  ‘Trust’ is not a word one uses in the Palace.  As she would know, if she were who she claims to be.”

“So the zarh believes that the hieth’a is … someone else.  Despite the evidence of his eyes.” She leaned back on the cushions, giving him plenty of opportunity to gather all the evidence he wanted to – well, all there was on view for the present, anyway.  The embroidered shawl was still preserving what might technically be termed her modesty.

He considered her, openly appreciative.  “The evidence is strong.  Soon the zarh will view all of it, and at leisure.  But there is more to a truth than the outward seeming.”  Taking another mouthful of wine, he continued, with a brief scowl, “Had the gods given Hezafer the skill of his fellow zarh, the truth would be already in his possession.  But there are ways, nevertheless.  The hieth’a will co-operate fully with them all.  _After_ she has pleasured her new master.  And he grows weary of waiting.”

Hoshi shrugged elegantly and took another sip of the wine, as though it didn't much matter.  “There is the matter of bathing.”

“Water is being prepared even now.”  He gestured towards another door, and rose to his feet.  “The hieth’a will find everything in readiness.”

It was perfectly plain that the slightest resistance would be met with force.  Sure, she might be able to down him with one of the martial arts moves she’d learned aboard _Enterprise_ , but even if that worked, she wouldn't be able to take out both of the guards outside the door.  And even if she could deal with one of them, the other would take off towards Travis.

_Oh, if only I could have a phase pistol in my hand for just one damned minute!_

But she hadn't, and she wasn't going to get one for wishing.  So she’d have to play along.

At least for now.

=/\= 

Well, as baths went, this had certainly been one to remember.

‘Luxury’ didn't get anywhere near it.

The bathroom itself was a revelation.  It was floored, walled and roofed with marble, and the bath was sunk into the middle of it, the size of a miniature swimming pool.   Up to a dozen people could have got into it at once and not have been seriously short of space.

She didn't know what had been added to the water, but if she could find the chemical composition of it she’d leave Starfleet, set up a company to produce it, and make her fortune.  The scent was just heavenly, and it left her skin feeling unbelievably soft.  Maybe it was something to do with the peach-colored flowers floating on the surface.

Hezafer was seated directly opposite her.  Thanks to the fact that the dress had been designed to make it extremely easy to slip out of, she’d contrived to shed it without dislodging the shawl.  That had come into the bath with her.  Occasionally it floated tantalizingly loose, but mostly it moved with her, and she luxuriated in the guilty pleasure of teasing him with glimpses.  The soft candlelight muted the shadows, gleamed on bare skin.

She was just turning to ask him a question when her acute hearing picked up a sound in the room beyond.  The door to the corridor outside had opened.

This was not on the agenda.

Footsteps crossed the room.  Swift, stealthy.  Two sets of breathing, both of which she recognized.

Surely he would hear them too.  Surely he would turn around, and then the fight would be on.  If he only got time to draw breath, he would raise the alarm.  Servants would always be within call.

There was only one way to make sure he was concentrating only, absolutely, on her.

She tugged the knot loose, twisted in the water as fluidly as a dolphin, and kicked off the nearest wall to send her towards him.  The water was hardly thigh-deep in front of him, so it was the work of a moment to set her feet to the floor and straighten up.

The weight of the water dragged the shawl off her.  It fell down her body in a long, slithering reveal, calculated to fix the mesmerized attention of anything male and heterosexual.

“Behold the zarh’s prize,” she purred, adopting the most provocative pose in her arsenal.

And at that precise moment Travis raised a priceless porcelain ornament above Hezafer’s oblivious head and brought it down.

The disintegration was _magnificent._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed it, please leave a review!


	28. Chapter 28

“The zarh feared he would not be in time.  The hieth’a has done well.”

Hoshi smiled, accepting the softly-spoken compliment, but lost no time in scooping up the discarded dress and pulling it back on; the shawl would have to stay where it was, floating abandoned in the bath.  The gossamer fabric clung to her wet skin, but she certainly didn't have the luxury of stopping to dry herself off. “She thanks the zarh for rescuing her companion.  She feared for his life if she did not co-operate with _that one_.”  A glance of mingled satisfaction and disgust indicated Hezafer, now sprawled unconscious on the marble tiles of the floor.

He nodded.  “There is little time and much danger.  At any moment a messenger from the oo’oacu may come with a summons.  Let the hieth’a tell J’zakthi fully what must be done.”

Straightening, she looked at him directly for the first time.  “The hieth’a and her companion trusted the queen.  They were betrayed.”

“Then the day will come when the queen will pay.”

Hoshi shook her head.  “That is not what the hieth’a desires.”

He looked startled and, she thought, intrigued.  “Then what?”

She glanced at Travis, listening silently to the exchange.  “Should I tell him the truth?” she asked, in English.

Her fellow ensign shrugged.  “He’s been a good guy so far.  As good as they get around here, anyway.”  That modification was eloquent, but she doubted that they could spare the time to go into the details.  Maybe later, if they ever got out of here.

She heaved a sigh and turned back to the zarh.  “The hieth’a and her companion are not from this place.  They did not know it existed.  They were brought here in exchange for the real hieth’a and the yamyne, and they desire only to return to their own place and allow the others to return also.”

The gray eyes traveled over her face, mapping it.  “The likeness is perfect.”  _Too perfect_ , he was probably thinking.

“The exchange was not one of the body.  It was one of the – the spirit.”

He was silent for a moment, considering.  “And the hieth’a told this to the queen?”

“She believed it.  The other zarh told the not-hieth’a that she feared being supplanted by a rival, and saw an opportunity to snatch at greatness,” Hoshi added bitterly.  “With the knowledge the people of the other world possess, Hezafer could do great things.  He spoke – he even spoke of becoming oo’oacu himself.”

“This knowledge would doubtless aid J’zakthi also in achieving greatness, should he desire it.”  The reply was as sharp and smooth as the obsidian blade itself, and for a moment his eyes glittered.  Then he smiled a little wryly and shrugged.  “Fortunately for the not-hieth’a, who should be far less trusting of those in whom she confides, J’zakthi seeks the safety of the kingdom rather than his own greatness.  He sees too much danger in such knowledge in the wrong hands – even his own.”

“And – Hezafer?”

His expression closed.  “The zarh will be dealt with.  If he has desired the death of the oo’oacu, it will be uncovered.  And then he will pay.  The queen also.”

Hoshi swallowed nausea.  “In the not-hieth’a’s world, they believe in the concept of mercy.”

“But this is not the not-hieth’a’s world,” he said softly.  “Here there is justice, lest others think to follow in the same footsteps.  If the people of the not-hieth’a’s world can afford mercy, they are fortunate.  Here, it is not possible.” 

Another liquid shrug, and he went on, “But time is passing.  The not-hieth’a has not said what prayers must be said to the gods of her world.  She knows what spells must be used?”

Quickly she passed the gist of the conversation to Travis, and learned in return that he’d made contact with Trip and Malcolm – a discovery that made her heart bound with hope.

“The gods work through the – the device to which the Sacred Globe belongs,” she said hurriedly to J’zakthi, who had been waiting patiently.  “Let the zarh take the not-hieth’a and the not-yamyne there, and they will see what is to be done.”

He stared at her, frowning; there was little doubt that he disliked the idea of possible sacrilege.

“There is no other way,” she added persuasively.  “The real hieth’a and the real yamyne must return.  The world must be made right again.”

After a moment he sighed.  “The world will not be right again, even if the not-hieth’a returns to her own place.    The Balance has shifted.  The zarh does not know where it will come to rest.”  But he shook off his brief melancholy with a shake of his head, and became decisive once more. 

“Still.  That is for the future.  And that future depends on whether the gods will hear her petition.”

“We should hurry,” said Travis nervously, glancing at Hezafer, still unconscious on the floor.  “If this guy wakes up, we’ll be in real trouble.”

Summoning up her courage, Hoshi put a hand on J’zakthi’s arm, feeling it braced under her touch.  “Please.  Let the zarh take us there _now._ There may be very little time.”

He nodded.  After bending to give a cursory examination to his fellow-zarh, he led the way swiftly to the outer door.

A boy whom Hoshi didn't immediately recognize was lingering outside, a scared expression on his face – more than likely connected with the two guards lying on the floor.  One of them was undoubtedly dead, but she could hear the snoring breathing of the other, who was probably simply stunned.  The boy’s expression cleared almost magically as soon as he saw Travis; the smile of joy that lit up his face was absolutely brilliant.  Seeing it, Hoshi made the connection that identified him: that was the smile that had cracked open when her companion pressed the tray of cakes on him to share with his young fellow servants.

“Hey, now, we’re fine!  You did great, kid!”  Travis beamed right back at him.

J’zakthi glanced down at the child.  “The son of Egefa has brought honor to his father’s house.  It will not be forgotten.  But now he should return to his own rooms, and take care that he is not seen.”

It was obvious to Hoshi that the boy, whoever he was, had no thought of disobeying.  He shot the zarh a look in which awe and gratitude were mingled, glanced briefly and shyly at her, and then with a last beam at Travis fled lightly up the corridor and disappeared around the corner.

“He will be okay, won’t he?” asked the helmsman as the three of them began walking swiftly in the opposite direction.

It was plain that J’zakthi had understood what was being asked, even though it was in English.  “He was not seen by anyone who would remember him clearly.  And even if they did, he will be beneath the zarh’s protection.  No-one will harm him.”

There a few were people passing to and fro, but clearly the awe and fear in which the zarh was held prevented anyone from questioning him by so much as a look.  If anyone noticed that the hieth’a was parading around the place wet through and wearing a provocative and now extremely damp dress, they didn't dare even glance at her.  The three of them might just as well have been completely invisible, except that people got out of their way without a word.

As they walked, Travis filled her in on what he’d managed to accomplish.  The news that he’d actually gotten in touch with Trip and Malcolm rolled such a weight of worry off Hoshi’s chest that she almost felt as though she could float the rest of the way, but she reminded herself that they weren't safe home yet.

It probably wasn't coincidental that the Gods’ Room wasn't far away. 

The door was unlocked and unguarded.  At a guess, no-one who wasn't fully authorized to set foot in it would dare to touch it; the dread of what it contained would be a more effective deterrent than any number of armed guards.

J’zakthi plainly felt himself fully authorized, though it was noticeable that even he drew a breath before setting his hand to the door.

Hoshi was surprised by how small the room inside seemed: it was no more than seven meters long and rather less than that wide.  Unlike the corridors, which were lit by many lamps, it was dim, illuminated by only a cluster of wax lamps around the feet of a carved stone idol at the far end that seemed to stare disapprovingly at their intrusion.  The light was sufficient, however, to gleam on the surface of a metal artifact to one side that was unmistakably not a product of this civilization.

“Keep away from the front of it,” said Travis in a low voice.  “I can get into the side, there’s a relay there that I can use to signal.  Trip and Malcolm are waiting.”

J’zakthi stopped just inside the door and watched silently as the two of them moved carefully closer to the machine, hugging the wall.  Hoshi glanced at him as Travis found what was evidently an opening mechanism in the side of the device.  His face was unreadable.

For no reason at all she felt driven to make him talk.  As her companion began delving inside the machine, preparatory to starting the process of transmitting in Morse, she turned back.  “The not-hieth’a would ask from where this device came.”

“It was found in the desert,” he answered, his voice absolutely without expression.  “There was a great ruined temple of metal.  It contained many such devices, but this one alone seemed undamaged.  The oo’oacu gave orders that it should be brought to the Palace, and here it has been ever since, dedicated to the gods.”

Suddenly something in his face changed, and he stepped forward, his expression almost desperate.  “If it is not of the gods, it is of men – men like the zarhs.  The not-hieth’a has power.  Even the not-yamyne may have power.  And they are willing to give it up, when it could be used for so much good?”

She held his gaze.  “The not-hieth’a is sorry,” she whispered.  “She would help if she could.”

“The zarh is also sorry.  But he is fighting a war, and he must use the weapons the God brings to his hand.”

Hoshi found she couldn't look away.  His eyes were gray, almost the color of silver, but the pupils at the core of them were black, fathomless.  It was like looking into a deep well, and she was sinking into it, faster and faster and deeper and deeper.  The darkness intensified, but by then she couldn't have struggled if she’d tried.

“Got it!” The whisper from Travis passed through her consciousness and meant nothing.

She hardly heard the _click, click-click, click, click_ of the Morse code starting, and if she had heard it, it would have meant nothing. 

_You are beautiful_ , he said.  _I would that you had come to me willingly._

_I can’t help you_ , she answered.  _I’m not supposed to interfere._

_The queen betrayed you.  She has joined forces with Hezafer.  I will be destroyed, and many will suffer._

_I’m sorry._

_Sorry is not enough.  There is too much at stake, for too many.  It will cost me my honour, but so be it: I must know what you know._ A faint movement in her mind, like an indrawn breath.  _You are so different.  I wish … but it is of no matter now.  I must do what I must.  I truly had not thought they would dare…_

_This is wrong_ , she said desperately.  _Please, let us go._

_I cannot do that.  You are the only weapon that I could use against them.  It is not for my own greatness, I swear it by the God.  Stay with me.  I will let the not-yamyne go, but you must stay. I promise you, you will not be harmed._

Hoshi tried to move, but it felt as though she were paralyzed.  Slowly his hand reached out and caressed her face.  _You are beautiful._ There was an aching sadness in the voice in her mind.  _I am sorry I must make you hate me._

If only she could speak; if only she could resist.  If only she could tell…. There was somebody she needed to tell, but she couldn't think who, or how to. 

There was a tapping sound at the back of her mind.  She tried to make sense of it.

_S-A-F-E-?_

She almost laughed, but didn't.  Couldn't.

More tapping.  _R-E-S-C-U-E / N-O-W / H-U-R-R-Y_

_I will let him go in safety if you promise to stay.  Or I will destroy him.  You know I can do this._

He could.  He would.  Just a couple of steps forward, and Travis would die.  Hoshi felt as though she were floating in an eternal darkness, with only the voice holding her to the earth.  Space, but without stars.  Cold.  Airless.  Terrifying.

_S-T-A-N-D / B-Y_

Somebody behind her said something.  The voice sounded oddly familiar, but it no longer mattered, except that she didn't want the owner of it to die.

Die…. _The hieth'a_ , she said, moved to a distant protest.

_She brought her fate on herself._

He closed the space between them.  As though from very far away she felt the dim need for … somebody … to look, to understand, but it no longer mattered.  _Yours, body and soul…._

A rising hum of sound grated against her eardrums.

For just a moment, his concentration was broken.

She broke the surface, clawing for air and sunlight, falling back from him.

Light was waking behind the display panels.  Striations of color began to move deep within them, and the metal began to vibrate ever so softly.  It was evident that something was happening.

At that moment something else happened.

The door that the zarh had closed behind him flew open and a man almost fell through it.  The resemblance to Trip had almost vanished behind the expression of almost insane rage on his face.  He had a knife in his hand, with a curved golden sacrificial blade, and he lunged forward and plunged it straight into J’zakthi’s unprotected back.

At the exact same instant the air in front of the now humming machine split open like the pages of a dropped book, and out of it stepped Malcolm Reed, phase pistol leveled.

The bright beam split the air directly above the dark-clad zarh’s shoulder even as he fell forward.  Hezafer’s eyes bulged at the new arrival even as he dropped like a stone, stunned for the second time that evening.

_“No!”_ screamed Hoshi, plunging back to J'zakthi.  She was still half-submerged, and the loss tore at her.  _Yours, body and soul…._

J’zakthi was trying to lever himself up again by the time she reached him, but the hilt of the knife stood up like an obscenity beside his shoulder blade.  The blade had certainly pierced his lung; the miracle was that it had missed his heart, or he’d have been dead before he hit the floor.

“Don’t move! – _Don’t move!_ ”  Every movement would do more damage, cause more internal bleeding.  She glanced up wildly at Travis and Malcolm, who’d reached him barely half a second after she did.  “We've got to help him – take him back with us, get him to Sickbay!”

“Too late,” whispered the zarh.  “The God calls his servant.  But let the not-hieth’a forgive him enough to grant him one last gift before he dies.”

“You’re not going to die,” she said, tears starting from her eyes as she lied; in English, but these words are said in every language, and rarely with truth.

He dragged his head up and laid his hand on her forearm.  The faint shadow of a wry smile dismissed the absurdity for what it was before he continued pleadingly, “Let the not-hieth’a’s god kill Hezafer.  For the good of the kingdom, let him do this.  For if he lives, he will bring disaster.  He will have the hieth’a, and the hieth’a is a fool.  Even if the oo’oacu lives, they will meddle, seeking power…” He choked, bringing up blood.  “A last gift – for the love of the gods…”  His eyes fluttered towards Malcolm, and widened briefly before returning to her.

Hoshi twined her fingers with his.  “The not-hieth’a will ask her god that the favor be granted.  Let the zarh sleep with a quiet mind.  He is forgiven.”  _Yours, body and soul._

He tried to smile again. _I am sorry._ She responded to it by bending down and kissing him.  No matter what he’d tried to do, because he felt he had no choice: they owed him their lives, and it had cost him his own.

His lips moved against hers for just a second.  Then he choked again, and this time he couldn't catch his breath.  He was drowning in his own blood.  Frantically she tried to help him breathe, but he was past any help but one.

Beside her Malcolm shook his head.  Then he leaned forward, took hold of the hilt of the knife and pulled it out. A great gush of red came with it, and with a rattling sigh J’zakthi fell forward against Hoshi and lay still.

“Oh god, oh god…”  She put her hands to her face.  They were sticky, and red, and the red stickiness came off on her cheeks. _Yours, body and soul._

“Ensign.  We have to go.  Immediately.”  He looked so weird without black paint and sticky hair.  For a moment she could only stare at him.

“He wanted you to kill Hezafer.  The other guy.  The one you stunned.”  Even as she said it, she knew it wasn't going to happen. 

The lieutenant obviously thought her experiences had unhinged her.  Maybe he wasn't far wrong, at that.  “He won’t wake up until long after we’re gone, Hoshi.  But we must go _now._ ”

“No!” she shouted.  “He knew what would happen.  Hezafer, he’ll meddle with the machine.  He’ll do something, something terrible.”  She thought with mounting horror of the deserted world the Yb’oa’s modern descendants would find, with the tombs isolated in it without a sign of the civilization that had built them.  At a guess a few had escaped the carnage to come and fled (or been transported, for whatever reason) to the nearby world that could sustain them, where the memories of what had happened had been lost or deliberately suppressed.  There their civilization had matured into one capable of warp flight, only to rediscover centuries later the last remnants of the rulers of their ancestors.

There was no imagining how many had died, or by what agency.  At a guess, at some point in the future the machine would somehow precipitate a disaster, inviting the attention of some hostile species.  There were enough of them out there.  It only needed one to come calling.

But the officers from _Enterprise_ could change that.  They could change history.

_They could save the world_.


	29. Chapter 29

“I can’t, Hoshi,” Lieutenant Reed said at last.

She’d known what he would say.  What he had to say.  Nevertheless, she hated him for it.  “All those people out there are going to _die!_ ” she spat.  “You can save them all.  Just change the setting on the damn pistol and shoot him!”

“Ensign.”  His voice had gone cold, the sound of authority.  “We are strictly forbidden to intervene in the development of the worlds we visit.  The history of this world has _happened._ I cannot in conscience do anything that will alter it.”

“But it happened because of us!” she cried desperately.  “If we hadn’t come here, none of this would have happened!  We’d be _restoring_ history, history as it should have been!”

“Hoshi.”  Travis put a steadying hand on her shoulder.  “We didn’t _ask_ to come here.  They _brought_ us.  What’s going to happen – they brought it on themselves.”  He glanced at the door, his young face troubled, and murmured, as though to himself, “That poor kid – I hope he’ll be okay…”

“ _He_ didn’t bring it on himself!” she sobbed, gesturing down at J’zakthi.  “If he hadn’t rescued us, he’d still be alive!  And if he was, maybe he’d be able to stop what’s going to happen – maybe he’d have killed Hezafer himself!”

Malcolm sighed.  “But that’s what’s _happened_ , Hoshi.  From our real time perspective, it happened hundreds of years ago.  If we changed what follows from it, we’d change the history of the Yb’oa.  Yes, we’d save hundreds, maybe thousands of lives in this civilization. And at exactly the same time, we’d almost certainly wipe out all those who will be born back on Yb’oa itself.  All those people we met at the reception; all those architects who put so much pressure on you to translate the inscriptions.  _All_ of them.  And that’s not including how the history of those who’ve come here before us would be affected.  There might be all sorts of consequences.  Some good – some bad.  We’d never know.” 

He gave her a long look, and then slowly lifted his phase pistol.  With his thumb he deliberately clicked the setting from ‘Stun’ to ‘Kill’, and then he handed her the weapon. 

Her hand shook as she settled the grip into it. 

_Yours, body and soul._

Hezafer was still unconscious.  His face still bore traces of its insane rage.  He deserved nothing, no trial, no chances.  He was plotting regicide and usurpation, with whatever that would involve afterwards to seal the deal with Vaharaish; an unborn child would be the first casualty, no doubt.  He was a _murderer._ And even worse than that, a fool who was about to achieve power: an ambitious fool, meddling in things he didn’t understand.  A fool who was destined to bring his people to disaster.

“He sure wouldn’t be much of a loss,” muttered Travis. “But…”

She pointed the phase pistol at the helpless zarh.  Even though her hand was still shaking so much she had to use the other to steady it, she couldn’t possibly miss at this range. Her finger curved naturally around the trigger.  It would need only the lightest pressure to move it.  The safety catch was off.  One squeeze, and the bastard would be dead.

He was a _murderer_.

But she was not.

Slowly she lowered the weapon.  She didn’t resist as Lieutenant Reed gently slid it out of her grasp.

“I should have done it.”  She spoke her thought aloud.

“You didn’t do it because it wasn’t the right thing to do.”  Travis squeezed her shoulder.  His expression was gravely proud.  “However much either of us wanted it.”

She looked across at Malcolm.  “You knew I wouldn’t do it.”

He returned her gaze.  His eyes were opaque, shuttered.  “You had the courage to do it.  Perhaps more importantly, you had the courage _not_ to do it.  It takes a coward to kill a man when he's absolutely defenceless.”

“Ah, I think we could save the philosophy for when we’re back on _Enterprise_.”  Travis pulled both of them back to reality.  “Not to say I don’t like the place or anything, but they seem a bit too keen on knives for my taste.”

“Indeed.”  Reed shook himself slightly.  “I omitted to mention that if Hoshi had pulled the trigger, the chances were that _Enterprise_ would never have come here and therefore there would be nobody standing by to rescue us.”  He glanced at the two ensigns.  “We wouldn’t even have to kill anyone; we could just destroy the machine and face the consequences, though that’s not a course of action I’d recommend. But the end result would be the same.”

“But if _Enterprise_ had never … so we’d … hell, this sort of thing gives me a headache!” the helmsman groaned.  “Can we just _go_ now?  Please?  Before anyone else comes in?”

Hoshi looked down at the dead man lying with his face almost in her lap.  She wasn’t sure if he’d been her friend, or even if he’d been a good man driven by desperation, but he’d saved them.  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and dropped a last kiss on his temple.  It was already cooling.

Close to tears, and burdened with a sense of defeat snatched from the jaws of victory, she followed her fellow officers back to the machine.  Malcolm had two pairs of infra-red goggles cinched around his upper left arm, identical to the one that was around his neck; he now took these off, put his own pair on and handed them one each.  “You’ll need these.”  He consulted his chronometer.  “Transporting in eleven seconds.  Ten … nine …”

“How do you know?” asked Travis, puzzled.

The lieutenant gave him a long-suffering look.  “I’ve been transported back and forth from this room seven times hoping to find you.  The arrangement was that if the return process didn’t produce me, the commander was to try again every twenty seconds.  So far, this is the first time I’ve moved out of range.  So…”

The room began to break up into squares, subdividing into more squares, into more and ever tinier squares, tumbling end over end into the darkness.  The last thing Hoshi saw was the gleam of gold from a shaft lying on the floor beside a motionless body. 

“Goodbye,” she whispered, as tears stung her eyes again.  _Yours, body and soul._

But she never knew whether she’d made any sound at all.


	30. Chapter 30

“Hey, you two!  Glad to see you in one piece!”

Trip could hardly wait to set down the controller before striding forward and enveloping the two ensigns in a shared bear-hug.  “Both of you okay?  Have lots of adventures?”

“You could call it that.”  Travis ran his hands down his hot-climate uniform, and then for some reason turned his back for a moment to check something.  When he turned back again, his face beneath the goggles radiated so much relief that Trip wondered what the heck _had_ happened ‘back there’.  Wherever ‘back there’ was. 

In desperation, when the first step and even the second produced no results, he’d finally agreed to let his junior officer try the third step, and actually transport himself to find out what was happening.  It had been a partial success.  Much to Trip’s relief Malcolm had returned unharmed, and there was one positive piece of news: the scanner had picked up traces of Travis’s DNA on the machine there.  There was no sign of either of the missing ensigns, however.   Going looking for them was just too risky – Travis knew that they were waiting, and they could do no more for the time being, though the lieutenant had argued successfully that it shouldn't do any harm if he could go back again to check every now and then.  In between his periodic visits since, the Brit hadn't been so informative, apart from reporting on each occasion that ‘the bloody place was deserted’.  By the time six visits had produced no results, the two of them had grown so frantic with worry that Trip had countermanded Jon’s _fiat_ about taking weapons, and pressed the phase pistol into Malcolm’s by-then willing hand.  Time was pressing, dawn was now not far off, and when the two of them didn't show up for alpha shift aboard _Enterprise_ , T'Pol would have no choice but to out them to the captain.  What Jon would do then was unimaginable, but the bottom line was that he’d be put in an absolutely appalling position he’d done nothing to deserve.

When the latest unfolding of the air disgorged not one traveler but three, the relief to their senior officer was absolutely indescribable.

Hoshi seemed the worse-off of the two ensigns.  Even in the dim infra-red light it was visible that tears had begun to streak down her face; her expression was woebegone, though she forced a gallant smile as she hugged him back. 

Although Travis was obviously overjoyed to be back in their own time, it was obvious that he was worried about her.  Trip didn't miss the way his hand rested comfortingly on her shoulder, nor the fact that Malcolm glanced at her when he thought he could do so unobserved.  Obviously it hadn't been a barrel of laughs, but getting the lowdown on everything that had happened to them could wait till they were all safely back on board ship.  The main thing was that they were s _afe._

“Did you have much trouble with them?” asked the helmsman.

“Who?”

“The others.  The ones we exchanged places with.”

Trip and Malcolm traded puzzled glances.

“You mean we disappeared and nobody else came instead?”

The chief engineer shook his head.  “Not a sign of anyone.  You just vanished into thin air, and that was that.”

Hoshi frowned, dashing her hands defiantly across her eyes.  “We each replaced someone.  We inhabited their bodies.  So where did _they_ go?”

“Stand away from the machine.”  Malcolm had picked up the controller.

His three fellow officers obeyed, startled.

“Just a precaution,” he said.  “Hoshi, you remember the time when you got stuck in the transporter buffer?”

She clearly did.  Her face was a study in horror.  “You – you think they’re still _in there?_ After all this time?”

A slight shrug.  “Does anyone have any other suggestions?”

The button that had been used to transport him back and forth was now in the neutral position.  He placed his thumb on each of the three ‘senders’ in turn and pushed steadily, all the way.  “Theoretically, unless the bodies have been moved in the meantime, whatever ‘molecules’ this machine transports have just been restored to their original owners.  If they were still in there, of course.  I could go back and check…”

“The next place you’re transportin’ to is _Enterprise_ ,” said Trip sharply.  “An’ I suggest it’s past time we thought about gettin’ out of here before the sun comes up.”

The chirp of his communicator made them all jump.  His already rapid pulse quickened still further as he tugged the instrument from his pocket.  “Tucker here.”

“You may be about to have company, Commander,” T’Pol’s voice was cool, but maybe it was his imagination that there was a note of slight strain in it.  “There are additional guards approaching the tomb.  They appear to be heading towards the entrance.”

“Damn!  Thanks for the heads-up, T’Pol.  We’ll think of something.  Tucker out.”

“There are other chambers.  It depends where they look, if they do come in.”  Malcolm was staring at the sarcophagus as though hoping to read answers in the hieroglyphs chiseled into the sides of it.  “There’s only one safe place we can hide.”  He wheeled around, picked up their packs, the globe and the lamp, and dropped them through the space above which the anti-grav was still keeping the lid hovering.  The already poor light all but vanished except for where it reflected redly off the inside.  “In.  Everybody in.”

Trip mentally heaved a sigh.  He’d just known it was going to come to this.  ‘Trip Tucker Meets The Mummy’.  But there really wasn't any option.

Travis obeyed with alacrity, though he had to wriggle to fit his broad torso through the gap. 

Hoshi looked at the sarcophagus.  Most noticeably, she looked at the lid, tons of stone held up by nothing more than a couple of metal clamps that were only just attached to it.

“I can’t,” she said.

=/\=

 

_I can’t, I just can’t._ She already felt as though she were suffocating, here in the middle of all those thousands of tons of stone and almost pitch darkness.  The thought of getting into the sarcophagus itself, and being trapped in it with three other people, using up what little air there would be – of the lid falling, and sealing them in alive – _I just can’t!_

“I have claustrophobia,” she said in despair.  “I can’t get into that thing.  I just can’t.”

“Hoshi, you have to.  It’ll be okay.  Travis, tell her there’s enough room.”

Dimly the helmsman’s face appeared in the gap.  “Wouldn't want to be staying in here overnight, but we’ll all fit in if we have to.”

“We _do_ have to.”  Lieutenant Reed’s voice was taut.  “Or we’ll be found in here and then all hell will break loose.  The commander and I are here against the specific orders of the Yb’oan planetary council.  Even the captain doesn't know we’re here. And to add insult to injury, we've broken into the sarcophagus and disturbed what was in it.  If that were to come to light, I rather doubt there’d be enough left of us to prosecute.”

“But you _found_ us!” she pleaded.

“I rather doubt the Yb’oa would regard that as a mitigating circumstance, Ensign.  Get into the sarcophagus.  That’s an order.”  His tone had been hard, but it gentled suddenly.  “Trust me, Hoshi.”

She bit down on her lip so she wouldn't scream as the two officers led her to the huge hollow block of stone.  Her knees wouldn't work to lift her, so with the best care they could manage they hoisted her between them.  Travis helped her to slither in, falling anyhow on the inner coffin, and she could hear herself breathing in terrified little gasps because her lungs weren't working, there was no oxygen…

There was a short exchange outside, which Malcolm lost because Trip was the ranking officer.  So it was Malcolm who slipped in next, taking up more of the space and more of the oxygen of which there was already not enough; but Trip came in on his heels, and seconds after that there was the unmistakable sound of Yb’oan voices in the corridor of the tomb.

Then – the noise she’d been dreading.  The changing note of the anti-grav’s motor.  In instant response, the great slab of stone above them began dropping, sealing them alive into their communal grave.  They would never be able to lift that unaided; they wouldn't so much as shift it.  She heard the small click of the clamps touching the rim, and then it stopped.  And somebody switched the lamp off.

Buried alive.

As the lid lowered itself silently on top of them, cutting off the outside world completely, the four of them were crushed together in the small space. As Malcolm had said, it was big enough - just. And only just. Every one of them felt the pressure of that enormous block of stone settling on top of them, and Hoshi felt her worst nightmare had come to pass.

Air, there was no _air._ She could feel the lack of oxygen closing her throat, but the deep breath she'd drawn was bursting her lungs.  She’d been hoarding it, her body shaking with the unreasoning terror that if she let it out there would be no more.  But she couldn't keep it in indefinitely.  She had to breathe out, and then her worst fears would be realized.

She knew she should let it out slowly, silently.  She knew that with the clamps still in place there would be a tiny gap through which air _could_ pass.  She knew that the four of them might be cramped and hot and uncomfortable – the way Trip’s body had pressed down a little harder on those below him as the lid came to rest proved that the space was only just adequate – but that she would not suffocate.

She knew it, but she couldn't believe it. 

She couldn't keep the air in any longer.  She couldn't keep the scream in any longer.  She had to get out.  At any cost.  The very world was closing around her, crushing her inwards like a gigantic fist....

Something _was_ closing around her. Someone's arms, gathering her in, holding her close in safety.  Someone’s hand closed around the angle of her jaw, turning her head gently and firmly to the side.  Someone's mouth closed on hers, tender and inexorable, demanding her attention. Someone who was one of the hottest kissers she'd ever encountered, so that almost against her will she forgot about the weight of stone sealing then all alive into their tomb...

The passion of the kiss reduced her exhalations to a series of stifled snuffles.  She was so shocked that she didn't even notice that she breathed in again and there was oxygen – hot and dry and dusty as the air was, it was breathable, and the slightly spiky tang of aftershave now filling her nostrils was the smell of safety.

Minutes passed.  A thin line of light betrayed the passing of torches; the tomb was being thoroughly checked, though it was noticeable that none of those outside moved between the sarcophagus and those mysterious lumps in the wall. 

As Hoshi’s panic started to subside, the hand holding her jaw relaxed very slightly.  He evidently knew she was getting a grip on herself, and would allow her to pull away if she wanted to.

She didn't want to.

She ran her fingers into soft dark hair, finding it rough with sand, and tangled them in it.  His breath in response fanned soundlessly across her face. 

The darkness was their confessor, and kept their secrets.  Even the goggles conspired, making only the gentlest and most inaudible of contacts.

The visit by the guards was evidently a mere formality.  The voices and the footsteps went into the other chambers; there was no sound of any alarm, and very soon they retreated back into the corridor up to the world of the living.

Silence took the tomb again.  Soundlessly two mouths separated, though Hoshi thought her heartbeats must be so loud they were echoing off the walls.

“If you guys could get us out of here I’d be real pleased,” said Travis, sounding slightly winded.  Malcolm had slid down into the small space between him and Hoshi, and Trip (being a Southern gentleman) had opted to share his weight between the two men.  Travis had gotten most of it, though the chief engineer had been wise enough to slip in facing the coffin’s feet, where the anti-grav device was resting.  As a result, he was able to switch the device on again.

The tomb was pitch dark, so it was impossible to see the movement above them.  Only the stirring of air told them the lid was rising, and a communal sigh of relief told that the thought of being trapped in here had occurred to them all.

“Everybody out,” whispered Trip.  “Just keep away from the corners.”  That, of course, was where the clamps were secured, and it wouldn't take much of a push to dislodge one of them by accident.

The relief of being able to slither out of the sarcophagus was indescribable.  As soon as he was out, the chief engineer activated the scanner he was carrying.  “All clear.  Let’s get our things together and get out of here.”

Malcolm was still inside the sarcophagus.  The red glow of the infra-red lit it.  “Give me a second.  I have to put this back where I found it.”  There was the faint sound of scraping, and then he passed the lamp, the pack and the anti-grav device out from under the lid, sliding himself out last of all.  “All done.”

“Something I don’t understand,” said Travis, helping to pull off the clamps when the lid had been softly and carefully lowered back into place.  “These things were in plain view.  They’re metal, they stand out a mile from the stone.  I was sure the guards would see them.  How come they didn't?”

“Because the Yb’oa don’t look at the sarcophagus,” Malcolm answered with a hint of a grin.  “It’s a cultural thing.  As far as they’re concerned, it’s invisible.  Technically speaking, they shouldn't have noticed if we’d been sitting on top of it – but that was a chance I wasn't quite prepared to take.”

“Might have been pushin’ our luck a bit too far,” Trip agreed, with a far broader grin.  “Now all we've gotta do is get ourselves out of here and back out to the beam-in point.  Think you can do that, Lieutenant?”

“It might not be completely beyond my expertise,” the Brit said solemnly.


	31. Chapter 31

Captain Archer picked up his knife and fork, and set them down again.

His Eggs Benedict sat on the plate in front of him; his orange juice was in the glass.

He didn't want any of it.

He’d summoned his XO to eat breakfast with him.  At some point during the meal, he was going to have to tell her that the ship was to break orbit as soon as the Alpha shift started.  Hoshi and Travis were gone. 

And they weren't coming back.

It was a little odd for T’Pol to be late arriving.  Normally, she was punctual to the dot.  Maybe she guessed what the topic of conversation was to be, and had as little appetite for it as he had himself.  But then she was a Vulcan, and there was no logic in delaying the inevitable. 

None at all.

The chime interrupted his bleak reflections.  With a sigh he leaned back and toggled the button.  “Archer here.”

“Captain.”  T’Pol’s voice was as impassive as ever.  “Please come to the transporter room.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Negative, sir.  But nevertheless your presence is required.”

Well, it wasn't as if he was enjoying a hearty meal.  It was almost with relief that he balled his napkin and placed it beside his plate.  He could always catch something later.

=/\=

There didn't seem to be any crisis in progress as he arrived at the transporter.  His XO was standing by the console. 

“We are about to have visitors, sir,” she greeted him.  “From the planet.”

“Maybe they’ll have some news.”  He was a little surprised that nobody had told him that any investigation was going on, but maybe the Yb’oa hadn't wanted to get his hopes up.  “They’re okay with using the transporter?”

“In the circumstances, sir, it seemed the most appropriate method.”  She pushed the controls, and he turned to watch, still not at all at ease with this process of deconstructing and then reconstructing something as incredibly complex as a human body.

Four columns of swirling particles appeared.  Even as they began to coalesce and solidify, he started to guess at the truth.

As he stared at four dusty faces, two of them looking somewhat sheepish, he felt as though he would burst – whether with joy or rage, or a mixture of the two, he didn't know.  “How the _hell–?_ ”

“Sorry, Cap’n.  We just thought we had to give it a try,” said Trip quietly.  “Didn't want you involved because you’d had your orders from Starfleet.  If it went pear-shaped it was our responsibility.”

“I’ll be having a word with _you_ two later.” Jon glared at two Department Heads who looked meekly back at him, carefully hiding their triumphant grins.  They could wait till he’d had time to decide exactly what punishments he could impose, short of anything that would appear on their records.  Maybe a spell in the galley preparing vegetables for Chef, or, or … hell, he’d think of _something._ Something that would impress on them both that taking it on themselves to run AWOL on insane rescue missions was not something that he intended to encourage; without, however, hiding from them his real and fervent gratitude for their success.  “Dismissed.  You’re excused duty for this morning.  I’ll expect you on the Bridge after lunch.”

“Yes, sir,” they chorused, still meek as lambs.  They kept their faces straight as they walked past him, but he just knew they were grinning at each other as they rounded the corner; and probably, if he knew them at all, congratulating themselves on getting away with it.

An awful lot of vegetables need preparing during a five-year voyage…

Once the miscreants had vanished, however, he was free to feast his eyes on his restored ensigns.  They both looked weary to the point of exhaustion, but they seemed mostly unhurt, and most importantly of all they were _back._

“Reporting for duty, Captain,” said Travis quietly.  His eyes were shining.  Hoshi, on the other hand, seemed a little upset; her eyes were red as though she’d been crying, though she too smiled tremulously back at him.

“Glad to have you back on board, Ensigns.”  Jon found he had to speak around the sudden lump in his throat.  “I want you to go down to Sickbay and have Phlox check you out.  After that, assuming he clears you, take the rest of the day off.  I’ll speak to you in my Ready Room first thing tomorrow and you can fill me in on whatever happened to you down there.”

“Thank you, sir.”  Hoshi stepped down from the platform, and staggered slightly.

He caught her arm to steady her.  “Are you okay?”

He’d been right: she _had_ been crying.  “It – it wasn't good, sir.  But we got through it, and that’s what matters.”

“Get something from Phlox to help you sleep if you need it.  And we’ll talk it over tomorrow.  All of it.”

She nodded.  With Travis close and comforting at her side, she walked away towards the turbo-lift, doubtless en route to Sickbay.

After they too had disappeared down the corridor, Jon turned to his XO.

It probably wasn't appropriate to have her peeling vegetables for the rest of the voyage too, though she probably deserved it.  “Mind telling me what’s been going on?” he asked, unable to keep an edge of irony out of his voice. 

“Our two missing officers have been rescued,” she said imperturbably.  “However unorthodox the means, the ship has not lost two valuable members of the command staff.  I would suggest that it may be in order for us to contact the Yb’oa to report that they contacted us from a non-sensitive location, asking us to bring them on board.  Their current state precludes them being questioned to discover what had happened to them.  This is, after all, the truth.”

So it was: the facts carefully concealing what had actually transpired.

“And when the Planetary Council wants to ask them questions and find out what the heck happened?"

She looked limpidly back at him. “Starfleet have given us orders to break orbit.  We cannot be expected to disobey the orders of our superiors.” 

He folded his arms.  “Exactly when did you become involved with this crazy stunt?”  She wouldn't have instigated it; he was absolutely certain of that.  If he wanted to find the culprit for that, he need look no further than Engineering or the Armory.

Nothing, in reply to that.  She folded her arms in exactly the same way, and looked Vulcan.  Hell, he remembered so clearly when that expression had made him want to choke her.  Now he knew that she did it on purpose, just to exasperate him, and suddenly he wanted to burst out laughing.

Of course she wasn't going to tell him.  One of the things he loved most about his crew was that they were loyal to each other.

“Just great.” He pantomimed a scowl.  “I’m going to have a fun time writing this up in my report.”

“I would suggest, sir, that Starfleet would probably prefer not to know the details,” she said smoothly.  “After all, the report I have suggested making to the Yb’oa would be equally adequate for Starfleet.”

Jon had started to turn away, but this was so utterly unlike anything he’d have expected from her that he stopped and stared at her, the smile breaking out on his face.  “T’Pol, I think you've been on board _Enterprise_ for too long.  That was practically human.”

What might have been the hint of an answering smile froze.  Her delicate nostrils flared with indignation, though her eyes held the hint of a twinkle. “Really, Captain.  I perceive no grounds for _insulting_ me.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” he answered, laughing.  “Thanks for the advice.  Now I’d better catch a cup of coffee and get up to the Bridge.  Can’t have the captain turning up late.”

“It would not set a good example to the crew,” she agreed primly.

Shaking his head, he set off again.  After a couple of steps, however, he stopped and looked back just once more.  “Have I mentioned I've got the best officers in Starfleet?”

Maybe she too was laughing, though her face was solemn.  “Not since you arrived.”

“Pity.  Wouldn't want them to feel unappreciated.”

On her nod of understanding, he turned back and headed for the Bridge.  The heart that had been leaden inside him was soaring with relief. 

He still didn't have a clue what had happened to his ensigns.  As soon as he’d checked in on the Bridge and given the order to break orbit he’d comm Phlox and get a report on their condition; his burning curiosity to hear their report would have to wait until the next day, because it had been obvious they needed a decent rest more than anything else.  It would only be humane to let them get checked out first of all and then speak to them when they’d gotten a good night’s sleep.  After the way the Yb’oa had dawdled over giving him any information, he didn't feel that any undue haste from him in return was warranted; sure, if there was anything that they needed to hear he’d make sure they were informed, but as for the details of his other officers’ activities, he was going to treat that on a ‘need to know’ basis.

He got into the turbo-lift and thumbed the command control.  He wouldn't have to wait so long to hear what his chief engineer and tactical officer had gotten up to, though.  The interview in his Ready Room after lunch was sure going to be an interesting one.  Especially when the topic got around to vegetables.

Maybe he’d relent after a couple of weeks.  It depended mostly on how long Chef could put up with the pair of them under his feet.

The lift doors hissed back.  The Bridge was its usual scene of orderly calm.  Malcolm’s deputy had just slid into his position at Tactical; Hoshi’s and Travis’s were in their places already.  Heads lifted at his arrival.  The first tentatively hopeful smiles told him his expression had given away his news before he spoke.

“You’ll be glad to hear that Ensign Mayweather and Ensign Sato have been found safe and well,” he said, just as he reached his chair.  “They’ll be back on duty as soon as Doctor Phlox clears them fit.”

Cheering would have been inappropriate, but there was a little ripple of gladness and relief.  Doubtless the news would run around the ship, but it wouldn't hurt to make a general announcement after he’d heard from Phlox.

Jon sat down in his chair.  Beyond the curve of the planet, the stars beckoned.  And to help him explore them, he truly did have the best crew in Starfleet.

He glanced across at the Comms station, where Ensign Cunningham was standing in for Hoshi.  “Open a channel to the Yb’oan Planetary Council, Ensign,” he said.  “I've got some news for them.”


	32. The Epilogue

After a couple of weeks, things are pretty well back to normal.

Hoshi had a long talk with Phlox during the stay in Sickbay, and afterwards an even longer one with T’Pol and the captain, completing the debriefing over several meetings at Phlox’s insistence.  Mostly trying to talk through what had happened, and attempt what is clearly impossible – to establish whether it had ever actually happened at all. 

There is no history on that deserted, long-abandoned planet.  Unless some way can be found to tell the Yb’oa that the fruits of her subsequent labors have worked the miracle and enabled her to translate the hieroglyphs – no longer an impossible task, since she is now a fluent speaker of the language – then the chances are that no-one will ever translate those mysterious panels.  She has the footage of them on her PADD; she could work on them herself, but she’s reluctant to do so, and the captain doesn't press her.

And even if the panels do yield up their secrets, it is unlikely that any of them will go into the details of what actually happened in the Palace over those two memorable days.  If events fell out as she fears they must have done, this might not even have been the tomb of the man whom she saw seated on the throne, but that of the man who had seized it.  The brief, ill-lit glimpse she’d had of the painted inner sarcophagus provided no certainty on that score.  Even if she managed to find a name, she knows that people of many civilizations have 'formal' as well as ordinary names; some can adopt new ones indicative of a rise in status. Either of the men would have reason to proudly display the vision sent by the gods, and to have the magical machine entombed with them to accompany them to the afterlife. She does not know, and probably never will know, what helping her and Travis cost the inhabitants of that ancient world.

Although the Vulcan had sat in on the debriefings with Captain Archer, it’s clear that she’s unconvinced that what their junior officers had experienced had literally happened; she maintains that it was some form of induced hallucination created by the machine.  Although Hoshi and Travis are convinced that it had been a genuine event, they had – and still have – no proof, except for the similarities on the panel in the tomb, which seem to point to _something._ That ‘something’, however, as T'Pol points out, could just as well have involved a hologram produced by the machine without any help from anyone from the future, and as evidence it’s shaky at best.  Certainly the machine transmitted something across time – the similarities between the images on the panel and the officers of _Enterprise_ demand some form of explanation, and that fits the bill well enough.  There is also the small matter that the energy readings from the phase pistol point to its being discharged, but that could possibly have happened at some point during the absorption into the machine’s processes; it can’t be proved one way or the other.  But as for transmitting consciousness, that’s a whole different ball game, and the Vulcan refuses to play it.  She even refuses to perceive the irony of this stance considering that her own people’s ‘consciousness’ can be passed on after death; that, apparently, is completely different.  At a guess, she and Trip will be arguing that one out for a while.

The captain is perhaps more ready to believe, but it takes little effort to see that even he is struggling with the concept.  Hoshi wonders occasionally exactly what he’ll write in his report for Starfleet, and doesn't envy him the job.

There’s one part of the story that she has discussed only with Phlox.  It’s too personal to be included in an official report, and part of her is ashamed that she put up so little resistance.  But still, sometimes she hears the whisper _Yours, body and soul_ in the back of her mind, and at those times she wonders again if it really happened, whether it was part of an induced mental experience, or whether the whole damned thing was all a product of her imagination.

Malcolm’s concise and unemotional testimony during the debriefing concentrated sedulously on what he saw and did.  When pressed to give an opinion on whether he too thought that time travel was involved, he was noncommittal.  He admitted that the experience was so convincing as to be indistinguishable from reality, but stopped short of claiming to believe that it had actually _been_ real.  His careful statement that ‘It might have been’ felt somehow like a betrayal, and since then he’s refused to speculate.  At a guess, coming pretty well face to face with his identical twin must have shaken even him, but he declines any invitation to discuss the event.

As the only person who’d made a ‘physical’ transfer – supposedly – it would have been convenient, to say the least, if he’d picked up some sort of small souvenir that might have settled the argument once and for all: one of the wax lamps, perhaps.  At the time, however, all he was undoubtedly thinking of was getting them all back in one piece to their own time, and the idea of going back again to have another go is hardly one the captain is likely to entertain.

Trip, who’d listened incredulously to the story and tried his best to take it seriously, offered more than once to allow Hoshi to slap him on behalf of his vile _alter ego_.  Luckily, he has no idea just how tempting the idea was occasionally, especially at first, or of the fact that for a day or two she found it hard to look at him without feeling a squirm of remembered loathing.  Plainly he has no real understanding at all of how real the whole episode was, and in some ways still is, to those who lived through it.

Travis appears to have recovered relatively quickly from the experience, the horror of it burning away from the natural resilience and cheerfulness of his character.  They talk about it sometimes, off-duty, and now and again it’s nice to spend a companionable hour with someone who talks on the same wavelength; someone who can understand, because they were there – or ‘not there’ as the case may be.  He seems to have accepted the incident as just one of the weird things that happen out here in space, and his solid sense is comforting.  His only lingering regret is that he’ll never know what happened to the child who helped to rescue him; his own act of preventing J'zakthi from killing the second guard made it possible that the boy was identified as the dead zarh’s accomplice afterwards, and punished accordingly.  He wishes there might have been some way to prevent that, but even if they could have found the child, there was no way they could have protected him.  There is no more they can do than hope that J'zakthi was right to believe that one small boy had probably been anonymous in an environment where small boys were everywhere, and that somehow the kid got away with it.

Hoshi, however, continues to feel a corrosive sense of guilt, and has taken Phlox’s advice that meditation might be a useful tool in coming to terms with her emotions.  T’Pol has offered to coach her, and the sessions have not only ended up with her learning several useful meditation techniques, but have given her an opportunity to talk through her still confused feelings about what happened.  Although still not conceding that the journey back in time actually ‘happened’ in a physical sense, the Vulcan has been perfectly willing to discuss the moral dilemmas the episode had thrown up, and her calm counsel has done much to quiet Hoshi’s still aching conscience.

As for Trip and Malcolm, the whole crew had been surprised by their appearance among the galley staff during their off duty periods – a state of affairs that had endured until Chef sailed into the captain’s Ready Room one day in a state of hand-waving Gallic exasperation.  After that, calm was restored on all sides.

But not quite on all sides.

Ever since the day of their rescue, Malcolm has been … well … distant.

Not impolite, of course; he would never be that.  On duty, he’s as impeccably professional as ever.  Off duty, he’s just … polite.

 _Infuriatingly_ polite.

In the Mess Hall, he’s polite.  He engages in conversation, answers if spoken to.  He even turns his head in her direction when addressed, though his eyes are always fixed just a fraction away from her face.

This obdurate withdrawal is such a contrast to that unexpected and passionate kiss in the dark that she’s growing more and more perplexed and angry.  If it had meant nothing, if he’d just done it to keep her quiet, well, she can understand that; she really had been on the verge of losing it and betraying them all.  Does he think she’s such a child she’ll throw a hissy fit if she finds out he’d just been doing his job?

But she needs to know if that _had_ been all it was.  Because it hadn't felt like that.  It had felt like a revelation.  It had felt like something that _mattered_.  Maybe it was some lingering after-effect of that stuff Hezafer put in the wine; maybe she hadn't fully gotten over that mind-link with J'zakthi, who was like Malcolm in so many ways, at least in her perception of him.  Maybe the whole damn situation had just made her unbearably confused, but she’s still struggling to get her head round it.  So they need to talk – or at least _she_ needs to, because it certainly feels as if _he_ doesn't; about that as well as about the other things, the things that prevent her wounds from healing as they should.

The whole thing with the Palace and the people in it; _had_ it been real?

They’ll probably never know.

But Malcolm shared it, for just those few moments.  She wants to talk to him, more closely than the captain could or would; wants to know what he saw, and how he felt at seeing his double fall dying to a coward’s blow from behind.  To know what he thinks now, what he feels.  About that, and … other things.

Only he knows, and he’s suddenly as elusive as a shadow.  Once the extra duties in the Galley had ended, he started doing extra hours in the Armory.  Once or twice she’s come across him alone in the gymnasium, but on each time, before she’d had a chance to speak he’d quietly made his excuses and left.

She’s put up with it for a while, hoping against hope that the invisible wall between them would melt of its own accord, and that things would slowly return to normal.  But the wall is still there, and the normality is only surface-deep, and Malcolm still doesn't meet her eyes.   Although Trip refers to their adventures freely and is keen to hear as much as he can about what happened, on the one occasion the ship’s tactical officer was present when the discussion started he took refuge in a PADD and refused to be drawn by any of his friends’ attempts to involve him.  True, on the day after their return he made the opportunity to offer an apology to her for ‘any discomfort’ she suffered during their rescue, but his tone was as formal as his stance as he spoke; his whole demeanor was that of a Starfleet officer performing a necessary but not particularly pleasant duty.  The apology was as perfunctory as her acceptance of it, and the whole brief encounter achieved nothing – except, perhaps, to fuel her growing bewilderment and anger.

She comes out of the shower one night, wraps her hair in a towel as usual, and piles it high on her head to keep it out of the way while she towels herself dry.  For no reason at all it reminds her of the way the Queen’s women piled it high, brushed and combed and polished to silk as the finishing touch for her to ensnare two dangerous men who were circling her like scorpions, each ready to sting the other to death.

There are too many such memories.  She doesn't know if Travis has them too; she doesn't like to intrude more than she can help.  For all his resilience, he too probably has one or two demons that walk in the shadows between waking and sleeping. 

Before she can think better of it, she sits down at her computer terminal.

All of the crew have two mailboxes.  One for official communications, one for personal.

She brings up the relevant name.  Clicks on the first, then the second.  On all the occasions when she’s run routine checks of the ship’s mail system, she’s never seen anything in it.  When the transmissions arrive from Earth with messages from loved ones at home, she never has anything to route here.  Sometimes she’s thought that it’s a sure sign what an uptight ass the owner is that nobody at all wants to write to him.  At other times she’s wondered with a pang of pity what it must be like to be so utterly alone, and whether he knows.  Or cares.

Her fingers have taken on a life of their own.  She watches the words spool out on to the screen.

_We need to talk.  Hoshi._

It takes half of eternity for her index finger to press the ‘Send’ key.  She watches the message disappear, and wonders whether he’ll read it or just delete it, sitting there alone in the dark.

Sitting here waiting for a reply that will never come is ridiculous.  But she gives herself five minutes, just in case.  Five minutes.  Not a second longer.

Eight minutes and fourteen seconds later the envelope flips into her inbox.

_Forward Observation.  22:00.  Reed._

‘Reed’, indeed.  She clamps down on the urge to write back _Don’t bother_ ; she can’t afford to make mistakes, and she knows perhaps better than anyone what a perilously poor means of communication typed words can be.  They have no shades and shadows, and there are shadows around Malcolm Reed. 

Half an hour.  She dries herself, and takes thought what to wear.  She doesn't want to appear formal, and certainly not as if she’s trying to appear … well, as if she’s trying to come on to him.  They've had one unfortunate misunderstanding on that score already, and she’s in no hurry for a second dose of that kind of embarrassment.  That said, her wardrobe is somewhat limited; life on a starship doesn't call for many choices of clothing.  So she settles for the nearest thing to a neutral outfit she can come up with, and sets out for the Forward Observation Lounge with a flutter of apprehension in her stomach.

=/\= 

It’s probably inevitable that he’s there before her – a Tactical Officer will always secure the advantage of the ground.  There are a few others present; the ship has no set area for socializing, so people tend to gravitate here to read and talk and relax.  Doubtless Malcolm had that in mind when deciding where they should meet.  There won’t be any possibility, even any suggestion of…

… intimacy.

A degree of privacy is achievable, though.  He’s seated in a quiet corner, his dark gray clothing blending into the seating.  His fingers are steepled in front of him as she approaches; a thoughtful frown on his face as he stares at them doesn’t conceal the fact that he’s aware of her.

For safety reasons the chairs are usually secured in place, but it’s possible to move them if necessary, as long as you put them back afterwards.  Even deciding where to sit, in this charged encounter, is problematic.  Beside him (it’s not really possible; he’s made sure of that by sitting right in the angle of the walls, a perfect defensive position) – too friendly.  Opposite him – too accusatory.  At right angles – too carefully neutral.

She compromises.  Not quite at right angles, but not quite as close as she could have gotten if she’d been determined on it.  If that’s forcing herself into his comfort zone, he’ll have to deal with it.

Before she can launch into her prepared words, he speaks.  The Tactical Officer in fully locked mode, deliberately coming out of left field to take her off balance.  “I apologize for any embarrassment my conduct may have caused you, Ensign.”

 _Embarrassment?_ Any _embarrassment?_

So that’s _it?_

Another apology, as meaningless as the first; and they just walk away, and nothing changes and nothing heals and nothing will ever be comfortable between them ever again?

She’s not having that.

“Malcolm.”  The word is flat and quiet, delivering due warning. 

In response to the note in it, his gaze flicks up from the contemplation of his beautifully manicured fingers, and finally he looks at her directly. 

They’re not in uniform.  No rank pips gleam on the breast of his gray silk shirt, but the gray eyes above it are shuttered and impenetrable.  She’s not going to succeed with a frontal assault; he’s far too well armored for that.

Well.  There are more ways to kill a cat… and she thinks absurdly that he is like a cat now, _I Am The Cat Who Walks By Himself_ , sitting there small and neat with his tail tucked around his paws and all a cat’s aloof disdain for humanity.  And, of course, the long curving claws sheathed in velvet.

 “I want…”  She takes a deep breath and starts again.  “I _need_ to talk with you about what happened.  Not … just the … not … About what happened before that.”

“If it happened at all.” 

“Right.”  She wishes she’d thought to bring a drink.  A glass of wine or something might have helped to steady her nerves; she could have offered him a glass too, in the attempt to make the occasion a little less wary on both sides.  “Do you think it did?  Or did we all just … imagine it?”

He returns his gaze to his fingers.  “Imagine it – no.  A hallucination shared by all three of us to some degree couldn't possibly be a coincidence.  If it _was_ a hallucination, it was deliberately created and induced.  By whom, and for what reason, I can’t begin to imagine.”

“So you think it actually happened?”

A frown, but again it’s a thoughtful one.  “Vulcans don’t believe time travel is possible.”  So, he’s discussed it with T’Pol too.  That in itself is telling.

“You’re not a Vulcan.  And you were there – you _saw_ them.  You saw everything.”

“I saw what I believed was real.  Just as I do in dreams.”  He seems about to say more on that subject, but with a tightening of his lips he veers away from it.  “It doesn't feel like a dream, much more like a memory.  But how reliable that is as a guide to whether it was ‘real’ or not, I can’t say.”

She sits forward, further invading his personal space.  “Let’s assume, for the purpose of argument, that it was real.”

A wary glance.  “So?”

“So, we were _there._ We directly influenced what people did, how history worked out.  What we did – or didn't do – caused the obliteration of an entire civilization.”

She can tell by his face that he’s thought of this.  More: that he’s thought of it a great deal, and isn't immune to the pangs of conscience.  She presses on, remorseless.  The wounds need to be searched.  “That guy who was murdered – J’zakthi.  He knew something would happen, something terrible.  He knew the machine would cause a disaster.”  _And we could have prevented it by killing the other bastard.  Just one man, in exchange for all those innocent lives.  It’s not like he’d have been a loss._

“He _believed_ something terrible would happen.  He may have been right, but it’s equally possible that it was no more than a coincidence.” He hesitates for a moment, and then goes on, choosing his words very carefully and speaking in the lowest of voices.  “Actually, we have an idea _what_ happened, if not _why_.  While the commander and I were experimenting with the controller, trying to contact you, I saw what I believe was a ‘snapshot’ of another period in the planet’s history.  There was an aerial bombardment in progress.   The attackers were using advanced technology, at least on a par with _Enterprise_ ’s.  I’m afraid the chances of survival for anyone on the ground must have been very remote.”

Hoshi clamps her hands around the arms of her chair.  “Why didn't you tell us this before?”

He meets her accusing gaze steadily.  “Because you were already punishing yourself enough.  We did the right thing, Hoshi, however difficult it may be to believe.  History is history.  Whatever we did, or didn't do, resulted in the _now_ we’re currently living in.  I’m not competent, qualified or entitled to play God with history, and neither are you or anyone else on board.  Acting in self-preservation is one thing; I’m sure neither you nor Travis did anything you didn't need to in order to survive.  But killing someone, however hateful they may be, because you've set yourself up as judge, jury and executioner for Fate is something else.  A step too far.”

This speech began as very measured, but by the end it had gathered passion.  A passion that carries an echo of another passion, encountered in darkness.

It isn't going to quiet all her misgivings.  It isn't going to take away the image of J’zakthi dying in front of her, or the sound of his voice begging for a favor she couldn't grant him.  It isn't even going to address the question as to whether any of it was real, or whether any of the people she’d seen had ever had their lives disturbed by the arrival of visitors from another world.  But somehow his certainty is comforting, reminding her that after all, they’re only human, and occupy a very limited place indeed in the happenings of the universe.

It occurs to her suddenly that he’s good at keeping confidences.  If she wants to tell another human being about what happened in those last few minutes in the God’s Room, he’ll listen to her seriously, and not another person will hear of it from him.  As for providing answers?  No.  There are no answers.  She’s going to have to live with that.

_Yours, body and soul._

“Have I helped at all?” he asks, after a pause.

“I don’t know,” she replies, honestly.  “A little bit, perhaps.  But could I ask a favor?”

One eyebrow rises.  “No promises.”

She colors a little.  “Could I borrow one of your shirts?”

The other eyebrow joins its fellow. 

“Please.”

He studies her for a moment.  “There’s no time like the present.”

Their conversation appears to be over.  They walk silently to his quarters, while she rages silently at herself to know what the hell he must think of her now.

His cabin is painfully Spartan.  There are no photographs from home pinned up on the noticeboard.  His bunk is so neatly made it could pass for that of a prison cell.

He goes to the wardrobe.  Somehow it’s not surprising that all the clothes hanging up in it are impeccably neatly arranged, even color coordinated: gray and black civilian wear on one side (one pale blue jacket – surprisingly stylish), blue and beige uniforms on the other.  The standard black undershirts are in the middle.

Seeing the direction of her gaze, he takes out not a shirt but the top of his hot-climate uniform and hands it to her silently, still on the hanger.  He doesn't ask what it’s for.

“In the sarcophagus,” she says in a rush.  “My claustrophobia.  It – helped.”

“The shirt.”  His voice is completely expressionless.

Her face is on fire, but she meets his gaze.  The abyss yawns between them.  “I still dream about it.  Being trapped in there.  And when I wake up, I can’t get back to sleep.  So if I ..."

He takes the top back, and carries it to the bathroom, where he sprays it lightly with aftershave.

“I’m glad it helped,” he says quietly, handing it back to her again.

They stand for a moment, both their hands on the hanger.

Just for a second, it seems that she can see him clearly; that for the only time since they've met, his defenses are down.  But still that stupid English reserve keeps him silent.  Only his eyes are eloquent.

She wasn't going to ask, but it seems she must.  “Why haven’t you wanted to talk to me?”

They both know she’s not talking entirely about those moments in the sarcophagus, with the weight of stone bearing down like the end of the world.

Again, he chooses his words with the utmost care, as one placing footfalls on a bridge of cracking ice.  “Because … it seemed to me that my arrival might not have been entirely … opportune."

In retrospect she realizes that all that would have been visible from Malcolm’s position was the look of desperate yearning on the zarh’s face as she stumbled back from him towards imminent rescue.  He wouldn't have been able to see hers, but it certainly wouldn't have escaped him that the man’s death moments later had affected her deeply.  

This is true; but in what way exactly, she doesn't know even now.  It seems that Malcolm has drawn his own conclusions.  For the first time she understands his withdrawal: the response of a man guilty of failing in his duty.  For even though J'zakthi was not one of his charges from _Enterprise_ , he must have believed that the zarh had come to matter to her; and therefore, his failure to save him from death was a failure to save her from heartbreak.

For failure of any kind, he has never found any forgiveness for himself.

His next words confirm that conclusion.  “I thought it best to give you whatever time you needed to grieve.”

Has she been grieving?  She isn’t sure.  Certainly something is askew in her world, but she’s not sure what it is.  Maybe it will heal, but it will take time.  Fortunately, thanks to the persistence and daring of her two senior officers, this is something of which she will have enough.

After a pause, which she should fill, but doesn't, he continues in a low voice, “After that, what I did was … insensitive, to say the least.  That it was necessary doesn't make it less despicable.  And then, I found out afterwards that you’d been drugged and almost assaulted barely ten minutes previously.  Admittedly I didn't know that at the time, but I knew you’d been through an experience that must have been frightening at best.  You were in a vulnerable emotional state, and I … I took advantage of you.”

“It wasn't just to keep me quiet, was it?” she asks, at last. 

“I have to do whatever’s necessary to protect the crew,” he replies gently.

“I know that.  But that’s not what I asked.  It may have started off that way – but I don’t think it was by the end.”

For a moment he doesn’t answer.  A long, held breath hisses out softly; not quite a sigh.  “I’m … not good at relationships, Hoshi.  I can’t …”

Her lips put an end to his hesitancy.  His words were uncertain, but his actions are not.  Moments later the thought passes hazily through her mind that perhaps the differences between him and J'zakthi are not nearly as vast as she had thought.

Even this will not fully reconcile her to what has happened.  But it is balm for them both, and she gives and accepts it, understanding that this is the latest risk in this voyage of risks, out among the stars.

_Yours, body and soul._

Far behind them, the wind moans softly among the deserted tombs of Boa’an’a, like the voice of a lover mourning a long-lost love. 

 

**The End.**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that everyone who's stuck with me through this has enjoyed it. Tea and biscuits all round!

**Author's Note:**

> Any reviews or comments are always deeply appreciated!


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